


Telltale’s Batman: For the Love of Fools?

by PseudoCerberus



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Telltale Series (Video Game)
Genre: Alfred and Bruce relationship tested, Arkham Asylum, Batman Madness, Bruce Wayne Madness, Bruce Wayne loves John Doe, Bruce visits John Doe in Arkham Asylum, Gay Bruce Wayne, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Multi, Other, gay batman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 08:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23468353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PseudoCerberus/pseuds/PseudoCerberus
Summary: Scared of losing the only family he had left, Bruce Wayne chose Alfred over Batman.  However, withThe Dark Knightlaid to rest, Bruce is far from enjoying retirement.  Restless, fretful and chomping-at-the-bit, Bruce seems to be trapped in a cycle of leisure and loneliness.  The only person who can give Bruce a sense of purpose is John Doe: murderer, clown and incarcerated madman.  With Alfred despairing, and pushing Bruce to live a life he doesn’t want, Master Wayne admits something he instantly regrets: he likesmen.  Will Bruce get his happy-ever-after or will life crush him the way life always has?(WARNING:  Homosexual / Gay Bruce Wayne / Batman)
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth/Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne/Batman - Relationship, Catwoman/Bruce Wayne, John Doe/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 22
Kudos: 70





	1. Foolish Things.

The sun hung nonchalant in the summer afternoon, and the dappled shadows it made, passing through the trees of the Wayne estate, played casually on the outside wall, as well as on the inside of the rich, wood-lined room where Bruce and Alfred were sitting. Mr Wayne sat composedly on the lush red of the chesterfield, quietly brooding over _The Financial Times_ , while his Butler sat absorbed in the latest crime novel that had taken his fancy. Beneath his Sea Island cotton shirt, Bruce was unusually bruise free (something Alfred approved of), but his abdomen was tensed involuntarily and the occasional _tap-tapping_ of his right foot was forcing Alfred to re-read the previous paragraph.

Having re-read the same sentence three times, and then a fourth because the clock chimed, Alfred finally surrendered and closed his book. _Time for tea_. He couldn’t understand why Mr Wayne was choosing to read that particular paper. He was sick of seeing Bruce do chores. He ought to enjoy himself and read some crime fiction, or a silly English romp, he thought.

‘Plans, Master Bruce?’

Rustling the paper, Bruce paused before saying matter-of-factly: ‘I have an appointment at Arkham.’

‘You’re going to see Joker? _Again!’_ questioned Alfred. Exasperation made his voice weedy.

‘It’s _John_ , Alfred. John,’ Bruce corrected him.

‘Quite,’ said Alfred disapprovingly. ‘But, sir, aren’t you worried about people making connections? _Batman, Bruce Wayne, Joker and his criminal gang?_ You do remember all those people he murdered, don’t you?’

‘No one is making connections, Al, because no one cares enough about John Doe to scrutinise him that carefully. He’s just another nutter to them, Al, locked safely away in a cell. That’s all,’ and Bruce shuck the paper as if that concluded the matter.

‘Locked up for a reason, I might add, sir,’ pressed Alfred, but Bruce appeared not to be listening. Letting out a half-sigh of thinly concealed frustration, Alfred continued: ‘I am just frightened that with Batman retired, John is filling a gap, so to speak. Maybe take up an old hobby…maybe respond to Miss Kyle’s invitation? I think she is staying in town for you, you know? Take her out, enjoy yourselves…’

‘Not interested,’ said Bruce evenly, and then he added: ‘Well maybe I’ll bump elbows over a coffee…’

‘– and then take her out to dinner! Hell – take her on holiday, sir!’ encouraged Alfred.

‘I said I’d give up Batman, Alfred. Not settle down.’

‘And what is so bad about settling down, may I ask?’ Alfred’s voice was irritated, high, thin and spoken in a tone that had little love for Batman.

Bruce lifted the paper a little higher.

‘ _Well!_ What is wrong with Selina Kyle?’ exclaimed Alfred, truly frustrated at the unwavering stubbornness so typical of his charge. ‘I can’t see you making do with a pussycat, sir. You’d be bored to tears. Selina is a tiger – _why_ , with your mutual love of danger, I think if there ever were two people that could work out how to _tame_ a marriage together, it would be you two…why, I - .’

‘Alfred – .’

‘Please, sir! You have already admitted you CANNOT be Batman forever. _She cannot be Catwoman forever either!_ You complement one another – why you – .’

‘ALFRED!’

‘I am sorry, sir…I am sorry…’ Alfred composed himself, his right hand squeezing his left.

‘Alfred, I don’t like women.’

The words seem to echo, bouncing off the lacquered table, the marble lamps, the crystal decanter, to land back in the spot between Alfred and Bruce. A ringing suspension of sound that stated a fact both men had somehow known for a very long time. 

The silence between them went on too long. Alfred watched as Bruce got up from the chesterfield, wearing an expression he had only ever seen Batman wear: a cold, cruel mouth, a mask-like stillness, and a look in the eyes that could only be described as bitter disenchantment. It was a face that frightened Alfred, because deep behind those eyes he knew there were tears; tears that had frozen, petrified and turned to stone. Alfred’s mind was dumb as he watched his child leave the room. 

Shaken and very much alone, Alfred sank into the iron-leather chair and, to his surprise, began to cry. _I want you to be happy Bruce. Every time you punish yourself, you punish me…you’re killing me Bruce…I want you to be happy Bruce…by God, you deserve to be happy._

_Bruce, you deserve to be happy!_

*

Driving his car was one of the few things Bruce Wayne really enjoyed. He took the long, quiet, scenic root on the way to Arkham and this meant he could put the gear stick into fifth and pressure his purring engine to a roar. He loved the fast lane, and driving helped him think. He wasn’t sure why he had admitted that to Alfred, he wasn’t comfortable with it either. – but there was one thing Bruce Wayne was damn sure he wouldn’t let happen, and that was letting Alfred bully him into marriage – with two kids playing on the floor and a cushy, old Labrador snoozing beside the fire place. That just left Alfred serving tea with lavender-scented shortbread, a regiment of doilies and miniature silver cutlery. 

A soft voice reminded him that that was probably not what Alfred had in mind when he suggested meeting Catwoman, but Bruce wasn’t having it. Alfred had used his affection, twisting his arm behind his back until he was forced to give up Batman, and as much as he wanted Alfred in his life, Bruce bitterly resented _retiring_.

The big oak tree was coming up and the road was dead, so Bruce indulged in a little car-play, _whooshing_ and _vrooming_ and startling birds from the low hanging branches of the trees. If he just went on as usual and never mentioned it again, then maybe Alfred would do the same. Yes. If Bruce put on his stern-face every time Alfred approached the subject, then Bruce was sure his butler’s nerve would give. He would trust that Alfred’s natural embarrassment would prevent further discussion of his _love of men_.

 _Vroooom-ooom._ Thinking further, he wondered if, for appearances sake, he ought to go flirt with some totty at one of the parties happening at the weekend. No one could resist Bruce Wayne in a tux.

Bringing his engine down to a steady purr, Bruce rounded the corner and the asylum’s silhouette became visible against the furious blue of the skyline. It was always the same just before he saw John: the excitement in his chest curdled with a dread at the centre of his stomach. You could never be quite sure who you were about to visit when you went to visit John. _A child, a melancholic, a flirt, a madman_ – a reasonable John or a _ridiculous_ John? Bruce admitted, the man’s paranoia got to him sometimes.

*

As Bruce entered the visitors room, he could tell it was a melancholic John.

‘Hey buddy!’ John did his best to smile, but the emotion in the wide show of teeth stopped before it reached his eyes.

‘Hi John,’ and Bruce took his seat, nodding in thanks to the security man standing at the back of the room.

‘So…how are things? How’s rapport with Dr Phillips?’

John’s lips pulled an extravagant number of shapes, as did his eyebrows, before answering. ‘Well I had a GOLD star this week – but…they took it away.’

John looked deeply uncomfortable, deliberately not looking Bruce in the eye has he played with the chains that bound his wrists together. A chain that snaked below the table and down and round both his ankles too.

‘– and? Did you deserve it?’

‘NO!’ shouted John, clearly outraged. ‘Well MAYBE! _I don’t know…_ ’

‘Well,’ Bruce said foxily, ‘I have something to cheer you up.’

John leaned forward, ‘Oh?’

‘I’ve been thinking more about this fantasy of ours. Let’s pretend the doctors cure you. They find the right balance of therapy and meds and they allow you to come and spend some time with me under house arrest. What would you wear?’

Smiling in disbelief, John faintly shook his head. ‘You REALLY are crazy, _aren’t you?_ ’

‘Come on, I thought we’d start with the wardrobe first. Here: take a look!’ and Bruce slid a couple of glossy magazines towards John.

His pale mouth made a big round ‘O’ as he scrutinised the magazines in detail. ‘Well, _gee Bruce!_ I don’t know what to say. THANK YOU! – _but these guys?_ They’re so…’

‘Suave?’ offered Bruce, silkily.

‘– corporate!’ blurted John.

Smiling, Bruce folded his right leg over his left, and leaned as far back as the squat, badly made frame of the chair would allow. ‘It figures. Here try this! Page 21.’

_‘Ah!’_

‘I reckoned you’d like _colourful_. Italian. Lush. _Silky_ – have a look at the three-piece.’

John beamed, mouthing wow and then he frowned. ‘Ahhh – it is LUSH – but could we stick to purple and green?’

The polished oxfords that had been revolving sensuously above Bruce’s left knee stopped. ‘What – for everything?’ he faltered.

John nodded, seemingly quite enthused at the idea.

Wayne considered the genuine smile now on John’s face and decided to compromise. ‘Well, I suppose lilac can be sophisticated. Lilac and avocado, primarily…introduce some floral blues…have different shades of lilac,’ Bruce paused. ‘I could make that work.’

Looking up, Bruce saw John’s eyes that seemed enlarged and reminiscent of a love-struck puppy. He couldn’t help but grin, and then he turned, catching a glimpse of the guard, who looked quite simply aghast.

‘– and diamond prints, and a big SHINY _stopwatch_ – and –.’

‘– _and a clown-flower in the pocket?_ ’ reproved Bruce. ‘No John. Lilac it is – but let me do the rest!’ Then, with a pursing of his lips, he decided to indulge John. ‘– but you can have a pocket watch…gold…we will dandify you in the finest!’ he promised.

Ecstatic and then agitated, Bruce turned to catch a glimpse of the guard again, who was wearing such an expression of scandal that Bruce could no longer see his eyebrows. Gruffly, Wayne coughed and turned back to John, speaking in a now serious tone: ‘– and John? If you were to receive private tuition in something, what would that something be?’

‘THEATRE!’ exclaimed John dramatically, raising from his seat in true thespian style, stretching his chains with a clink, and then he wavered. ‘No. POETRY! _Oh_ – how about something musical?’

Bruce nodded approvingly. ‘What kind of music would you like to learn to play?’

‘JAZZ! Big band!’

‘How about I get you a saxophone?’

 _‘OH!’_ John gushed maniacally, clearly enchanted with the idea.

Then, sadly, their moment was interrupted. ‘Mr Wayne, I am afraid your time is up,’ came the professional voice of a lady doctor Bruce was familiar with, but whose name he didn’t know. Covering most of his face with his hands John mouthed _‘I don’t like her’_ , and Bruce winked. Then Mr Wayne stood and left John, who was still beaming appreciatively and who was clearly much happier than he had been when Bruce arrived. It was his duty to get John away from this place (even if it was only in his head) and he wouldn’t let anyone interfere with duty. He followed the woman out into the corridor.

‘Doctor?’ enquired Bruce politely.

‘Hibbert,’ answered the middle-aged female.

Smiling, in what Bruce knew to be his most charming smile he asked, ‘Enrichment is good for the patients, is it not, Doctor? Would Arkham agree to me buying musical instruments for patients who want to learn? I’ll pay for the teacher too – I’ll even pay for private tuition?’ Dr Hibbert didn’t answer, looking stunned, so Bruce decided to sweeten the deal. ‘– and I want to invest more heavily in the existing Arts and Craft Fund. After all, working creatively with the hands is excellent therapy.’

Still wide eyed and disbelieving, Dr Hibbert slowly inclined her head. ‘Well, thank you Mr Wayne. It is most kind of you to offer – I’ll talk to Dr Phillips.’ With that she smiled appreciatively, and Bruce mirrored her, stretching his lips approvingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ##### Chapter Track:
> 
> 'The Great Pretender', by THE PLATTERS
> 
> _https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rwfmbXJEBtY_


	2. Justice and Hypocrisy. (part 1)

It would be wrong to say that Bruce had been avoiding Alfred, but every time his butler approached him with that unusually sheepish expression, he found some reason to leave the room. Eventually Alfred stopped creeping about him, and things returned to a kind-of-normal.

‘You’re playing a lot of Eric Marienthal, sir. I thought that was more my thing than your thing,’ his butler commented, casting a bemused glance over at the gramophone.

‘Well, I like Jazz, Alfred.’

His butler smiled at him doubtfully, shaking his head.

‘Did you know John’s a Jazz man too?’

Now Alfred was far from smiling. He opened his mouth to say something and then closed it, burying his nose in his book instead.

Sensing a kind of Alfred-moment closing in on him, he bid his butler farewell and set off for tennis early. He was much, much too wise to Alfred’s strategies. The man’s silence was _not_ a given. You never knew what, or indeed from where, he was going to spring on you: back you up, sit you down and _start_. Bruce wasn’t having any of it. He was having tennis instead.

*

Hamstrings stretched, Bruce practiced with his racket in his typical wait-for-his-partner routine. Dr Elliot soon came jogging on court in his whites, puffing and shaking his wrists with his usual sarcasm.

‘Tommy, you’re here early,’ barked Bruce.

‘Ha-ha. Just be grateful I could come at all! _God, I am a busy man_ …’ said Dr Elliot, stretching his body importantly.

Bruce mirrored him, though with less sarcasm. ‘…I wish _I_ was busy.’

Sighing, Eliot shook his head like a schoolmaster reprimanding a pupil. ‘Bruce – _you’re never busy!_ Don’t wish for something those soft fingers have never experienced,’ and Eliot put his surgeon’s hands commandingly on Bruce’s shoulders. ‘It’s kid gloves all the way for you my friend,’ he confessed in his ear.

Bruce laughed. ‘Are you saying my brain is soft, Tom?’ he tittered, slapping his friend on the side of the arm.

‘Softer than the sweetest peach,’ said Dr Elliot, tenderly touching Bruce’s cheek in a manner reminiscent of 50s Hollywood. Hammily, Bruce blinked back at him.

‘Wat-up faggots!’ cried a voice from behind them.

Bruce whirled – _Tiffany!_

The young black woman stopped in her tracks and covered her mouth. ‘Oh God. That was awful! I – I am sorry. I didn’t mean to be…I – I was being one of the boys, _you know!’_ she insisted desperately. Her short curls spun frantically between the two of them. ‘Is that not what you guys do?’

‘It is EXACTLY what we do,’ rumbled Elliot. Sliding his hands around Bruce Wayne's waist, the doctor rested his chin irresistibly on the wide shoulders and fluttered his eyelashes slow and seductively.

Tinkling laughter erupted from Tiffany, who Bruce could tell was laughing in genuine mirth. 

‘ _Jesus!_ Your face Bruce! I didn’t take you for a homophobe,’ she said: half teasing, half serious. 

‘I am no –,’ Bruce started to snap.

Elliot held a hand up: ‘BRUCE! _please_.’ Then he turned to Tiffany. ‘He’s not –,’ and Dr Elliot planted a great wet kiss on the side of Bruce’s head: _MmmmmwwwWA!_

The hilarity erupted again. ‘GOD Bruce! You’re the colour of a lobster,’ Tiffany gasped.

_Oh god, don’t look down._

But the attention was on Tommy who had put his hands on his hips in a power stance, proclaiming boldly: ‘I have that effect on him.’ 

‘So, who is this delightful young woman? Come on Bruce…introductions.’

Glad of the change of topic, Bruce seized on it: ‘Tommy meet Tiffany, the late Lucius Fox’s genius daughter, now employed by Wayne Enterprises –.’

Dr Elliot cut across Bruce, and with genuine empathy he consoled: ‘ _OH!_ I am so sorry…I heard.’

‘Don’t,’ she cautioned, ‘you get used to it…’

Wanting to spare Tiffany any unwanted emotion, Bruce encouraged Dr Elliot’s good manners: ‘Glad to see you can be gracious, Tommy.’

The surgeon showed respect for a few more seconds before becoming animated with his usual boyish cheek. Turning affably towards Tiffany he invited her: ‘You’re dressed for it – come join us!’ and, further affirming his hospitality, he said: ‘I am sure we can negotiate a three sided tennis match. Strategy: you and me bomb Bruce.’

She giggled appreciatively, but faltered. ‘I am meeting friends. I am so busy most of the time, I hardly get to see them – so –.’

‘You _see_ , Bruce: another human being who is actually busy!’ gasped Elliot in astonishment.

A black hand playfully punched towards the doctor. ‘ _Hey!_ Bruce is a busy guy too!’

Raising one thin eyebrow, Elliot looked at her dismissively. ‘Yes?’ he enquired, oozing scepticism.

Tiffany opened her mouth wide in Wayne’s defence, but catching the look in his eyes she hesitated. ‘At…at press-ups!’ she quacked.

Tommy Elliot was suddenly a torrent of guffawing laughter. ‘Yes!’ he cried, ‘so he can pin all the twinks down!’

 _‘Stop it!’_ Bruce scolded.

‘That’s the extent of his LGTB policy at Wayne Enterprises, _ha-ha!’_

Uneasily she chuckled and then changed tack. ‘Gotta run!’

‘See you later, Miss Fox.’ 

Before Tiffany turned to leave, she cast Bruce an I-am-sorry-face and he accepted it with a slight nod. He loved Elliot, but in small doses. Feeling completely justified, Bruce glowered at his friend. 

‘Oh, come now, Bruce, you’re much too boring to be a puff…might make you more interesting if you were. _Might_ ,’ concluded Elliot.

‘Thanks Tommy…’ said Bruce uncertainly.

‘So, what is the latest happenings in the land of Gotham’s billionaire playboy?’

‘I’ve been building a new feature in the garden –.’

Elliot scoffed. ‘My. God. Bruce. Are you settling? _Who is she?’_ he demanded, for the first time showing genuine interest in Bruce’s news.

‘No – I could never! Girls are like chocolates: one and often!’

His friend chuckled, ‘ _Girls are like chocolates_ …well, my wife _likes_ chocolates.’

‘So do you Tommy. So do you,’ and Bruce patted his pal’s skinny, but fluid belly.

‘Yes, well. _They’re_ not attainable unless you have _nothing_ to do but crunch…and I am a BUSY man!’

Smirking, Wayne pushed his friend, who, now all fired up, announced: ‘ _En garde_ …TO TENNIS, SIR!’

Swinging their rackets, the two men got their game on.

*

Meetings out the way and neurotic employers pacified, Bruce made his way back to the Manor with his brain engaged, but emotionally a little weary. Some respected him, most envied him and some let him know they thought he didn’t deserve half of what he had. They were never overt, but just snide enough to dig him. He didn’t care; not really. Most had never known real pain. The kind of pain where material becomes _simply_ material.

He had an appointment with John that he wasn’t going to mention to Alfred. He was going to make a quick snack, have a quick shower, avoid Alfred in the study and then take the long way to Arkham. He might even pause and take some scenic pictures of the countryside. Some more snaps for his album. Meandering about the hall with a towel around his waist, Bruce straightened the objects he encountered with his free hand, while the other dried his hair. He hated things amiss. Tommy laughed that the décor hadn’t changed in over 60 years, but Bruce insisted he was _preserving_ and not, what had Tommy said: _frigidly clinging onto sentiment and trappings_. Tommy was a futurist.

‘Master Wayne!’

_Oh shit._

‘Hi Alfred.’

‘You’re back late, sir. Can I make you something to eat?’ asked Alfred kindly.

Bruce turned his body slightly away from the man, letting his hair fall in his face. ‘All sorted Al, thanks.’

His butler came to a stop and studied Bruce’s fingers as he moved a porcelain vase a micro-fraction. ‘I wondered if you fancied a game of cards, sir?’

‘Sorry, Al. I am going out,’ Bruce offered a little too casually. Slicking his shiny, black hair back, he was about to add –.

‘John. I know,’ said Alfred.

The porcelain vase was centred correctly and the silence stretched between them.

‘Good. So, I better be off then.’

Alfred simply stared at him. ‘Master Bruce in your 32 years of life you have never before shut me out. Why now?’

‘ _Alright_ , Alfred – got to get ready and all,’ and with that Bruce shut his bedroom door briskly in his butler’s face. Holding his breath, Bruce waited, listening for Alfred’s footsteps. He could feel the man’s energy vibrating on the other side of the door. Eventually there was a _clip-clip_ of feet and a faint scrape. Bruce stuck his head out: the porcelain vase displayed its blue side, not its red side. _Bastard!_

*

Once more confined within the faded walls of the private visiting room he had requested, Bruce leaned expectantly forward in his chair, waiting, in hope, for John to return his greeting. All that was returned, however, was a vacant, empty, soulless expression that reminded him of a figurine. Bruce wasn’t sure if there was a simmering malice hidden under that casper-face; in wait for the right word to fall into the wrong place. The slack lips said _no_ , but a glitter in the eyes said _yes_.

He was sick of John’s misery.

‘Hi John,’ he repeated, as if he was John greeting himself. Promptly he pulled out a fat scrapbook and found the page he wanted. ‘I thought today we could go to London’, he sparkled positively.

_‘Broadway?’_

‘No John, they have the West End.’

Violently, metal snapped. The chains around Jokers wrists rattled as he wrung his hands in the empty air. _‘WHY are you ALWAYS correcting me!’_ the crescendo voice spat.

The hiss lingered between them, and Bruce looked hesitantly into John’s perfectly round, black pupils. Black and glassy, like the taxidermy lynx on the east landing of Wayne Manor.

The pallid hands folded apologetically. ‘I am _sorry_. West _End_ it is. _BRUCE!_ ’ John grinned, though unconvincingly.

‘Ok,’ he shrugged, turning the pages of glossy photos and precision-cut tape. ‘Let’s start at The Serpentine Gallery…and we take a walk through Hyde Park…we see Nelson’s Column…afternoon tea…’

‘Do they do that?’ interrupted John. ‘ _The British?_ Eat their scones off a Union Jack?’

‘No. That’s what I had at hand. I had to build a set, John.’

_‘Did you take all THOSE pictures?’_

‘No. I took some. I thought it was more intimate.’

Both men paused, observing the other.

_‘Why do you have a British flag?’_

‘That’s NOT the point, John!’ and Bruce closed the book in irritation.

‘GEEZE! What’s _biting you?’_ scoffed John, curling his lip fast, like ribbon pulled across a blade. Then in the most remarkable Brit-upper-crust voice he drawled: ‘Care for a scone, Master Bruce? A scoone. Scooone. _ScooOOone._ ScooooOOOOooone. _Na-ha-haaa!’_

Hating the silliness, Bruce glared at an empty corner of the room. ‘Alright something natural,’ and he opened the book again, determined to be upbeat. ‘See: gardens and pressed flowers! Positive, wholesome things!’

‘I am BOOORED, BRUCE! – hey! _are those real?’_

_Good. He likes something._

Encouraged, Bruce passed the book to John. ‘Yes – take a look.’

Spidery hands fingered a pressed tea rose, bringing it up to those inky discs to scrutinise it carefully. Then the intensity passed and John, still keeping hold of the flower, lowered his hand and turned his attention to Bruce’s left ear instead.

‘You know, I never did SEE that _saxophone_ ,’ John glowered quietly. His black eyes glittered like malevolent beetles rolling across a plaster mask. ‘…I hear other people playing it, though.’

‘Well, I am sorry to hear that. I bought it. I bought ten of them. Earn some gold stars and you might get a go…’

John pulled an expression like he’d been slapped, then he jerked forward, straining as far into Bruce’s face as the rattling chain would allow. _‘Is that your solution for everything?’_ he spat. ‘Step into line, suck up other peoples’ shit and be _grateful?_ It’s easy when you’re the one everyone else is sucking shit off – _isn’t it?’_

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ now Bruce lowered his tone too, raising his chin a little higher. His sharp nostrils flared arrogantly.

‘It MEANS!’ burst John, articulating with his hands. ‘...It means…I’ve never seen that _BLACK girl_ in a courtroom. And _I am_ a _WATCHER. BRUCE!_ The staffs’ phones, the TV, the chit-chat. I am guessing that’d be quite a scandal! I am bound to notice something…’ and John turned to him baring his teeth in a wide, yellow grin. ‘So, Bruce! When’s _she_ facing _justice?_ ’

John’s violent, irrepressible gasps continued. Wayne was silent.

‘UNBELIEVABLE! _I FACE JUSTICE for YOU!_ AND SHE WALKS FREE OF HER CRIMES! _WHAT!_ She only murder ONE Bruce so that’s alright! – OR she’s _privileged_ SCUM like you? – from your circle so SHE’S _IN!_ What am I? A _NOTHING?_ A NOBODY?’

The outburst still ringing in his ear, Bruce closed the book with finality. He was sick of this. Eventually, in a steady voice he offered, ‘It’s more complicated than that.’ Then, unable to stop himself, he rounded on the ragged shape, breathing at him from across the table. ‘Tell me something, John: _why can’t YOU be more complicated?’_

Eyes larger than ever, John looked at him. ‘OH! _I am plenty complicated!_ THANKS BRUCE!’

A large, gloved hand closed tight on John’s shoulder, and as fast as a cat on fire Joker headbutted the security guard. Launching from his seat Bruce grabbed John and he bit him, hard and rabidly on the neck. Then Joker’s nose exploded like a smashed cherry; laughing manically as Bruce repeatedly slammed his head into the metal table. 

At some point an alarm must have gone off, and amongst the wailing siren – and screeching, vehement laughter – six burly men entered. And the room was a squash of biceps, and arms, and bodies pushing into each other.

Bruce, covered in blood that was not his own, watched as they thrust a needle into John’s buttock…and the laughter slurred. The movement slowing and the eyes bulging. Like a wild animal fighting back against the anaesthetic that would inevitably lead to collapse.

Bruce steadily became aware of his own ragged breath, taking ownership of his scrapbook that was now in tatters. Table turned over, chairs thrown: Joker was dragged up and out and Bruce listened as the shrieks and giggles – like devilish flatulence – faded far up in the corridor.

Defeated and furious, he made to leave.

‘Mr Wayne!’

A weedy Valkyrie came trotting down the corridor. Dr Hibbert panted: ‘You CANNOT make contact with patients! We normally insist talking through a screen with category one, but –.’

‘We are grateful of Mr Wayne’s most sincere and philanthropic generosity!’ issued the ringing voice of Dr Phillips, also appearing. ‘Aren’t we, Dr Hibbert!’ he added commandingly.

With a swift nod the woman left, clearly brow beaten into silence by her superior. When she had most definitely gone, Phillips turned. ‘Even so, would Mr Wayne not prefer a screen?’

‘No. I need it as normal as possible – for John.’

‘I see. Well let’s leave it a couple of weeks. Let the man calm down.’

Bruce nodded softly.

‘Oh, and the inmates really do appreciate the instruments! With all the money you have so kindly bequeathed us we are building a new activity wing! The hospital is most grateful, sir!’ the doctor gushed, and wanting to stress his seriousness he repeated: _‘Most grateful!’_

Bruce found his voice. ‘You’re welcome. I am glad to help. These people –.’

‘Deserve our pity and support, sir. I know,’ finished Dr Hibbert. Smiling earnestly in a show of his understanding.

Bruce tried to smile, and the corner of his eyes cracked. His mouth trembling a little at the edges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ##### Chapter Track:
> 
> 'Relating To A Psychopath', by MACY GRAY
> 
> _https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ipeEfIMQLo_


	3. Justice and Hypocrisy. (part 2)

He didn’t know how long he had been driving, but the sky was slowly going dark. Knowing he could not face Alfred tonight, Bruce booked himself into a hotel on the outskirts of Gotham city. He had a spare set of clothes in the back; he could hide his bloody shirt in the toiletry bag. Pausing in the red glare of a set of traffic lights, he examined himself in the car mirror. Swollen and a deep purple, the bite inflicted by John was steadily bruising up and around his jaw. _Damn._ A couple of days and it will be gone, a soft voice reminded him. _Good._ He really didn’t want to have to wear a neckerchief: he’d look like a complete twat. _BEEEEEP!_ As much as a surprise to the neighbouring car as to himself, a great swell of anger had suddenly ruptured, and he surrendered to a torrent of curses and hexes as he beat on his steering wheel. He finally stopped and caught site of the woman in the next car, nose crinkled like he was something disgusting. He held up his hand and smiled boyishly. She simply turned her head away. Then he was following the rest of the traffic. _Jesus John. I am trying. I am really fucking trying._

*

It had been a good few days since he had put John on the floor, and the bruise had more or less gone. Wayne Manor was a big place, even so, it was amazing how quickly Alfred could move. They had been playing a kind of hide-an-seek, as Bruce nimbly dodged his butler. Leaving rooms as if he had never been there. However, it looked like his luck had run out.

Bruce raised his head and pretended not to notice Alfred’s determined strides as he marched down the garden. Bending low, he continued to weed, a fistful of green in his leather gloves.

‘Master Bruce. A word, kindly.’

He looked up. Alfred was wearing an expression that looked like a bulldog who had just been licking piss of a thistle. ‘Yes?’ enquired Bruce innocently.

‘What are those, sir?’ Alfred trembled, pointing accusingly towards the house.

‘What’s what, Al?

‘I open them, sir, and I think to myself: pray tell, what pantomime is Master Bruce performing in? But the thing is, sir, on examining them – they won’t fit Master Bruce, will they? – _because they look like they fit a man who has spent most of his life in Belsen!’._

‘Wha –? What are you on about _now!’_ carped Bruce, rising from the damp grass.

‘The clothes! The purple clown clothes, sir!’ and the finger continued to shake with indignation.

Bruce Blinked.

‘They’re not clown clothes, they’re Italian!’ and with that, he threw his gardening gloves down like a 14th century nobleman initiating a duel. _‘Why are you opening my shit, Alfred!’_ he seethed.

His butler raised both hands in the air despairingly, pleading for anything; a voice from the heavens to boom and talk some sense into the man that he, quite frankly, thought was riding on the edge of insanity.

‘Coooey! Helloooo!’

Interrupted, they both watched as a small, animated rainbow made its way gayly down the garden path.

‘Hey guys! Thought I’d come say hi!’ beamed Tiffany.

Bruce beheld her, from her luminescent shoes to her curly black hair. She had on, quite literally, every colour in the rainbow, and on her chest, blazoned with love harts, it said: ‘Proud Ally’.

Horrified, Bruce turned to Alfred, who, eyes peeling back, shook his head (I never!).

‘I brought some films, AND some popcorn!’ she tinkled. Then she began listing the films: ‘We have, ‘The Birdcage’, ‘I love you Phillip Morris’ – Ewan McGregor’s in it – cute!’. The list continued and as it did Bruce’s eyes grew larger and duller as each fag-flick was given the spotlight. ‘– and finally. ‘MILK’ – the story of Harvey Milk, legendary activist!’

His butler gawped, mouth moving up and down. Also reeling, Bruce frantically looked for inspiration, and then he announced: _‘A DISNEY!’_

*

He didn’t know what had made him choose that particular Walt classic. It was a good film. All ages thought so. Still, _THEY_ were _making it weird._

The three sat, watching uncomfortably as Bambi lost his mommy, was initiated by his father, and matured into a juggernaut of a stag, ready to take on all mother nature could throw at him. _“Bambi! Quick the thicket!” ._ Their fidgeting was unbearable.

*

Eventually, little-miss-rainbow left and Alfred made towards him with his mouth open.

‘ _NO._ ALFRED! Not now!’

Bruce kept himself in his study as much as possible, shutting himself in his bedroom during breaks. Ever since the incident with John there had been this pit in his stomach, were at the bottom there felt a churning, wild sea. Disappointed in John, disappointed in himself: he despaired. Shivering, he unwrapped one of his most precious objects taken from a draw. It would be a huge thing to give him, but maybe that is what John needed. A piece of himself.

*

After 30 minutes of his most delicate persuasion, Bruce finally managed to get Dr Phillips to allow him to come and see John outside his cell. This meant a clandestine muttering through the hole in John’s door.

The hatch was opened and John’s face appeared, looking like he had just woken up, or was just going to sleep. One or the other.

‘Bruce?’ he rubbed his face drowsily.

‘I want to give you something,’ and Bruce pressed his whole body to the hole.

A little more animated now, John leaned in.

‘Now this, _this_ is more than it looks.’ The earnestness in Bruce’s voice bled through, and he began to unwrap a small, delicate parcel, taken from a yellowing cigar box. Unveiled from its musty tomb, Bruce held the nugget of brown like it was a holy relic once possessed by the pope. 

‘Now this, _this_ John is _The Pipistrelle_ …and it came all the way from England,’ he breathed.

John’s eyes widened.

‘It absolutely terrified me as a child,’ Bruce continued. ‘I had recently seen the Tutankhamun mummies, and then, after that, _this thing_ sent me doolally…but I could never part with it…it has lived in my sock draw ever since I was six...I take it out when times are difficult…it is a tiny black angel…a – a totem. It’s a totem, John, for when times are hard. I want you to have it.’

The large, angular hands held the desiccated bat out to John. Its leather wings curled organically about its fuzzy body, and its lips shrivelled back to reveal a remarkable set of tiny white fangs.

Hungrily John stared, reaching out for the bat, baring his own teeth in a manic display of greed. Then he faltered, the white hand fell away and he looked utterly disgusted with himself.

‘I can’t take that from you, Bruce!’ he said, aghast.

‘No – I want you to have it.’

‘No.’ said John firmly. ‘And I told you. I don’t easily part with things. _What if you want it back?_ I have problems letting things go… _don’t offer it to me Bruce!_ That is YOUR Pipistrelle!’ The thin voice rung, and then it added: ‘ _Your pipistrelle from Buckingham Palace!’_

‘No John. From England,’ Bruce corrected him.

_‘Your pipistrelle from London!’_

‘There are more places in England than London, John!’ he stressed.

 _‘The QUEEN of England’s_ Pipistrelle… _wow!_ ’ John whispered, eyes looking dreamily at the dried nugget.

Reluctantly, Bruce put the pipistrelle away. He couldn’t tell if John was being deliberately stupid or if he was so wacked up on meds this was the best his brain could do. Bitterly, he swallowed the disappointment pricking in his throat. But, before he turned to leave, John looked at him with an expression so fiercely human, it caused him to stop in awe.

‘Thank you. Bruce,’ John said, and Bruce’s heart contracted and then expanded. An aching, brilliant, dazzling glow filled every nerve of his body. _Oh…John._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ##### Chapter Track:
> 
> 'You Do Something to Me' by JOHNNY MATHIS
> 
> _https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OCxwLHGoKQg_


	4. Uptown, Downtown. (part 1)

Alfred had known something was wrong when he had paid a visit to Martha’s and Thomas’s graves and saw the flowers: crisp and dried and sorrowfully limp. Master Wayne had not been to his parent’s graves in over two months. Alfred was sure it was an omen. It signalled a break…from something.

In truth, Master Wayne had never been what you would call a normal child. Quiet and strange and secretive, even before the incident, Alfred remembered him sneaking about the Manor as a small boy, and himself getting him to laugh and giggle like a small boy should. Of course, he had always loved Martha. Martha could always make him smile.

Unknownst to Bruce, Alfred had realised that the man had been making secret trips to the Batcave. It wasn’t often, but when he was down there, he was down there for a long time. When Alfred had gone to investigate – first making sure Bruce was spending one of his long nights outside the house – he had been surprised to find the Batcomputer covered with a film of dust, and Batman looking forgotten behind his pane of glass. Joker’s Jokerrang, however, was missing.

Sighing like an old man, Alfred settled himself in his familiar seat in the Batcave. The whisky in his hand began to tremble. Looking up at Batman he sneered, bitterly. _The irony._ Eyelids heavy with burden, he closed them, and, in silent communion with himself, begged his brain to tell him how to reach Bruce. _I can’t leave him; could you imagine if I’d have left? Was this love?...or was this a flirtation with madness?...was there really any difference for Bruce?_

Darkness clouded the old man’s face as he looked towards the room Bruce had so thoroughly tried to keep secret. Next to the set-pieces of sentimental trappings and nice-days-out was a room: sound proofed, fuzzy-white, and studded with thick squares of padding. Turning back to Batman he let his eyes loose themselves in the darkness of the cowl. Beneath the hooked beak there was a deep shadow. A ghost. Like a monster’s mouth, the hole yawned in a wordless scream. 

*

In the uptown part of Gotham, Bruce had booked a table for two at _Ai Fiori_. He liked this restaurant for obvious reasons. It reminded Bruce of an elaborate train, with private tracery screens that boxed companions in, keeping words said at the table. He had on his smartest linen suit, with Cartier sunglasses resting casually in the top pocket. Drumming his fingers lazily, he waited for his guest to arrive.

‘Selina!’ he said joyously, standing to greet her as she slipped into the box. ‘Can’t leave Gotham without saying goodbye?’

Accepting his kiss on her cheek, she reminded him: ‘You contacted me, _remember?’_

‘Come now. You sent me an invitation.’

‘ – that must have been sitting on your desk for two months. _Really Bruce_ , you’ll make a girl paranoid she’s losing her charm…and after this last, erm, _shit-storm_ , I think it only common courtesy you buy me a drink.’ This she all said with a sumptuous smile. 

She really did look fine. Fine, but none of it over done. She had dressed for lunch not dinner, and the black and azure flowers on her silk dress shimmered so nicely as she settled.

‘A drink and a Michelin starred lunch,’ he reminded, spreading his arms ingratiatingly.

‘Star Bruce,’ corrected Selina. Her head was tilted and one sultry eye looked up at him from beneath thick lashes. Lifting her head up, she took a long, hard look at him and continued with interest: ‘…so what gives? Why are you not showing?’

Bruce played a little with the glass of Cheval Blanc that had just come. Sipping it sensuously as he said: ‘Well, I just fancied a rest after, as you put it: the shit-show. Been sweating in a game of tennis or two, building muscle in the garden - .’

‘No’, Selina interrupted, also caressing her glass, and she mouthed: B-A-T-M-A-N.

With a slow intake of breath, Bruce decided to answer honestly. ‘He retired.’

Miss Kyle gasped, thunderstruck. ‘Really! _Really?’_

‘Alfred,’ he explained sadly. 

‘Oh…but what are you doing?’ she enquired, lowering her glass.

‘I just said: tennis, gardening –.‘

‘No. I mean what are YOU doing with _IT_ – you don’t just stop that! _File it in a draw and forget about it?_ – I don’t think so!’ Now looked at him with an odd mix of curiosity and concern.

Bruce decided to play the flirt. Showing her the best side of his face he growled seductively. ‘Well, I have _a will of steel_.’

‘ _Oh_ – I do _love_ a man of steel – and with (B-A-T-M-A-N) out the way, there’s more Bruce time, _is that it?_ Is that what this is about?’ Pouting lips blew him a kiss and he returned a slick smile as though it were natural of him.

Leaning forward, the femme fatale interlocked her piano fingers and let the back of them cradle her chin. Beneath the table Bruce heard her slip one shoe off and then he felt her foot gently press against the inside of his thigh. 

‘Maybe. Maybe not,’ he answered. Adding playfully: ‘You can’t expect me to reveal my mystery just like that – come on Selina, where’s the fun?’

‘Oh, aren’t you the _mysterious_ one,’ she said lushly. Mockingly. _‘Tall, dark, handsome_ – rich – _the everyday woman’s fairy tale.’_ Her pouting lips returned to normal. ‘But go on…what is this really about?’

‘You’re a master thief, aren’t you? _Simply the best?’_ His purr was flattering, appreciative, and then he changed the tone, making his sincerity felt. ‘Ever stolen a person?’ he asked.

‘From where?’ The apprehension in her voice was becoming apparent.

‘Arkham.’

‘What!’ she blurted. _‘Who?_ ’ Immediately, Selina put her foot down. Her sultry movements becoming rigid with alarm.

‘Category one. I have detailed plans of the floors – I can tell you exactly where he is,’ Bruce levelled with her. His voice business-like in the stroke of a heartbeat.

‘Who?’ she implored, in utter disbelief.

‘John Doe.’

Now Selina became very still, and Bruce could tell there was a great deal of thinking being processed beneath her sudden statue-like beauty.

‘No. Why would you even ask that. John is sick. He’s in Arkham for a reason –.‘

‘ – and he’s getting sicker every day,’ Bruce interrupted with force, leaning as far across the table as he could. ‘He _needs me_ Selina. If I can just get him, I can incarcerate him myself. He will disappear within the walls of Wayne Manor – _hell_ , I can build a secret room _anywhere on the estate!_ All I need is help to get him out and I’ll do the rest. I’ll pay _hard_ cash. I owe it to him Selina. He needs me.’

 _‘He needs you?’_ echoed Selina. The scepticism in her voice caused the pit in Bruce’s stomach to tighten, and he involuntarily tensed as Catwoman’s foot resumed its slow and deliberate massage.

‘Please tell me you’ll do it Selina. _Please_ ,’ he urged. 

You’ll have my answer when I am good and ready…talk to me Bruce,’ and Catwoman’s velvet-purr was once again rumbling from those plump lips.

‘Tell me about John Doe. _Anything_ ,’ he pleaded. ‘You knew him in The Pact.’

‘Can’t you feel what I am doing? Do you know how weird that is: to look a girl in the eye like that and talk about another man?’

‘ _Please,_ Selina.’

‘Bruce?’

_‘Mmmm.’_

‘Do you like that?’

‘Yeah –.' and before he could finish, Selina roughly grabbed his cock and balls. 

‘Really?’ she said incredulously. ‘You see most men are rock hard when I do that.’

In an instant, Bruce had grabbed her hand and was now crushing it into the underside of the table.

‘Don’t do that. Don’t say that.’ His voice was stone. ‘Will you help me?’

‘ _You’re mad_ …’ breathed Selina. Her eyes bulging like a cat caught between a rottweiler and a rushing gorge.

‘Will you help me?’ the monotonous voice asked again.

‘Is THIS who is under the mask… _a madman_ …a complete _fucking_ psycho?’

‘Selina,’ and Wayne tightened his grip, feeing the cartilage between her fingers grind. ‘Will. You. Help. Me?’

‘No, I won’t.’ Her voice was incensed, but she kept it quiet. ‘Joker is in Arkham for a reason…he’s a murderer…or have you forgotten that… _I think you need to bring back Batman_ …’ and he began twisting her fingers in the opposite direction.

‘Ahh – _Oh Christ!_ You’re going to break my hand!’

The panic in her voice registered and steadily Bruce put both hands on the table. The glasses standing tall around the cut narcissi began to shake.

‘You complete monster… _my god_ – is this YOU?' and Selina looked at him in a way she had never looked at him before. Massaging her hand tentatively.

He couldn’t answer her.

‘Are you a hardcore fag too – _was none of it ever real between us?’_

Steadily, Bruce breathed low and vicious, ‘You never loved me. You – ,‘ and then he mouthed, narrowing his eyes: P-L-A-Y-E-R.

‘ _I am the player?_ Christ Bruce!’ and the tears welling inside those lovely eyes made the beast in Bruce Wayne’s chest roar. Crawling all over his skin like wasps’ feet. 

‘ _Who is this_ – who are you?’

‘JUSTICE. I can bring justice to John. The system has failed him. I won’t.’ Wayne’s voice was impressively reminiscent of Batman. A low, guttural tone that seemed to start somewhere deep down in his groin, and, what had for a moment, shocked Selina Kyle into complete silence.

Looking stunned for a few seconds more, her face now rapidly screwed up and she spat: ‘Piss off Wayne!’ With tears rolling down her cheeks, she gathered her things, ‘… _oh Christ…a fucking madman_.’

The pounding in his head was oddly quiet. He dared not look over the edge of the box. The food should have come by now.

‘I would not do that to John,’ Kyle went on, her tears subsiding. ‘I feel sorry for John too, you know! But do you really think imprisoning him in your manor: playing Mary Poppins one minute and them buggering him the next would help him? _Does he even want to be buggered?’_

Bruce’s whole body shook. He was sure he was making a scene.

‘You’ve hurt me Bruce! – _but my god_ , I feel _sorry_ for you...’

Snatching her bag with the hand that had not been crushed, she rose, then sat again: ‘Whatever you have _undone_ , do it up damn fast! – because if you don’t, you might just end up joining John.’

Yes, now she was leaving and Bruce heard her mutter savagely: _‘Player!...you fucking joker…’_

Rising himself, he left a quivering heap of cash on the table and exited the restaurant without saying a word to the staff. He was sorry that he wouldn’t be able to show his face here again any time soon. _Why were people constantly disappointing him? For so long, Bruce Wayne’s life had been one constant, fucking disappointment._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ##### Chapter Track:
> 
> 'Ashamed', by MUSE. 
> 
> _https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-F5WEM1X-5Q_


	5. Uptown, Downtown. (part 2)

Bruce poured himself a whiskey over ice; and then a second, and a third. Violent images of John stabbing that agent – the elbow wrenching back and forth like it was mechanised, strange insectile movements that left crying holes of blood – lingered provocatively in his brain. Over and over, he saw the green liquid rush over the fitting body as it sunk. Then, there were images of John smiling. Not the ghoulish smile of madness, but smiles full of tender confusion and uncertainty. The way he had given him that card at Lucius’s funeral. Bruce had thought he was yanking-his-chain, he had told him so too, but John hadn’t been. He had tried to be kind and it had backfired. Cut-crystal pressed to his temple. Bruce let the cold soothe his fevered head. _How much of John’s life had meant well and backfired? Was Alfred right? Had Batman made Joker?_ The guilt was too much and Bruce downed his fourth glass. _He could help him! He was sure he could help him…get him out of Arkham…take charge._ The voices of Selina Kyle and Alfred Pennyworth nipped viciously at the back of his mind and, yelling, he slammed the glass down. _He needed to…he needed to…he needed…_

_…and he was walking the long walk down John’s corridor and to a cell of his own. Batman was standing behind the guards as they locked him in and when the door shut it disappeared. Flashes of today’s visit flitted across his mind. John had simply sat. Again. His eyes cocaine-red from too many pills and sleep that brought no rest. It is awful to sleep and sleep and never feel refreshed. Tired and stale like the clock has frozen. Time had stopped for Bruce when Alfred took Batman away. He was screaming – and then his arms were bound to his sides. The more he screamed the tighter the straight jacket got, and then the room began to get smaller. No matter what he said he couldn’t seem to reach John. – if he did, would the anger come back? He hated seeing that face. The wide vacant smile. The glassy eyes. Wet, like they were supposed to be tears in them. He hated John’s anger. If he reached him would the madness be there? He was on the mattress now, pushing with his feet to escape the walls creaking at the edge of the bedframe. Crushing. Forcing him down inside the folds of fabric. He willed himself to get smaller, and tighter – and through the leather straps and sweat stained canvas he emerged. A tiny black spirit. Flutter. Escape. His wings carried him to the sill and through the jail bars he squeezed and away from John’s frantic laughter._

Bruce woke up. The whiskey glass clattered to the floor. It was 3 AM.

*

In a bid to avoid Wayne Tower (and Wayne Manor) Bruce had taken to wondering Gotham’s high streets for most of the day. Never taking his sunglasses off in the dizzying summer light, Bruce sauntered into _Araki_ and ordered an _Emerald Breeze_ to drink with his Peruvian-fusion sushi. He ate his meal alone, enjoyed a second cocktail, tipped generously, and finally floated back out into the dazzling shop fronts. Bumping elbows with the expensive crowd also out buying expensive things. Shopkeepers flocked about him with their simpering hospitality and flattered Bruce into purchasing a bunch of shit he didn’t need. He kept some and handed the rest to a passer-by, who, delighted, power walked with the crisp, shiny paper bags up the street and out of sight. He needed to find a charity. Maybe he should visit the shelter and pay for all the dogs’ food and medicine for a year. He liked animals, and in this cruel world they deserved more. 

Catching a glimpse of Wayne Enterprises, he did a quarter turn and vowed to crash the next coffee shop he saw – and – there was Jim Gordan…standing outside a food stand, seeming miserable.

‘Gordon!’ he called, and Jim rounded on him looking stunned.

_‘Bruce Wayne?’_

‘I –.’ _What are you doing?_ said a voice in his head. It sounded like Batman…just not quite as synthesised.

‘Bruce Wayne?’ Gordon repeated. Looking around incredulously. Like the cityscape might be part of a dream.

‘Commissioner! Yeah! No hard feelings – I admire your work? You haven’t retired, have you?’

Staring, the place between his eyes a little knot, Jim nodded his head and confirmed. ‘No-no. I am still a part of the force.’

‘Oh good!’ said Bruce swinging his hands on his hips. ‘I saw you looking glum…can I buy you a coffee?’

Jim slowly revolved and eyed the large, sweaty man bent over smoking meat and onions. ‘From Barry’s Food Cart?’ he asked hesitantly.

Bruce looked at the dollar hotdog sign. ‘Or from somewhere more upmarket,’ he suggested.

Alarm began to creep in amongst Gordon’s furrowed scepticism. ‘Gee Mr Wayne, thanks and all, but I think I am alright.’

Smiling a touch manic beneath his glasses, Bruce insisted, ‘Please! I am _bored_ and _I am lonely_ – let me treat a hero of Gotham!’

Holding a spatula, the large man appeared to be frozen. There was now a lot of smoke issuing from Barry’s Food Cart and Gordon, clearly caught between good manners and the desire to tell Wayne to _take a hike_ , said slowly, ‘I suppose I could spare 30 minutes…’

*

Plaid shirt crumpled against a gleaming leather moon-seat, Jim Gordon looked like a sidewalk pebble set amongst diamonds. Bruce hadn’t considered this place particularly posh. He really hadn’t wanted to make Gordon uncomfortable.

‘Thank you for your hospitality and all, but I think I’d better leave.’

‘NO! For god’s sake sit. Keep a lonely man company… _please_ ,’ and Bruce ordered for the both of them.

With his sunglasses still on, Bruce sat with his legs spread wide apart, smiling, then his face became serious. ‘Do you know how much I admire all you and your people do for Gotham?’ he asked. ‘You make this city safer, commissioner.’

Scratching his chin, Gordan admitted: ‘Batman made this city safer…well, he’s half of what makes Gotham safer…when he bothers to show up…’

Solemnly, Bruce nodded. ‘Well I am sure he has his reasons.’

‘I don’t know whether he’s missing, or dead – or just stopped!’ Agitated, Gordon took off his glasses and began cleaning them. ‘I am sorry, I don’t know why I am telling you this…’

‘Is this why you were looking miserable. You feel betrayed?’

‘What – No! _What?’_

‘…because wherever Batman is, Gordon, I am just so sure the last thing he would ever want to do is betray you, or betray this great city,’ Bruce concluded with gravity.

‘Yeah – you’re right! Gee, I never figured you as a Batman fan…my god…do you think he needs help?’

‘NO!’ Bruce shouted, causing Jim to drop his glasses and his eyes to pop. ‘I think you just need to give him time…he seems like a complicated man.’ As Gordon slipped and slid inside his chair, Bruce was slowly disappearing into his.

‘Gee, Mr Wayne…’ hesitated Jim. _Yes, ‘this is weird,’_ said Batman, finishing Gordon’s sentence.

A skinny waitress in a designer apron and bonnet swayed over to them and set Bruce’s beetroot latte with matcha-berry foam beside his beetroot and walnut palmier. Horror filling his face, Jim looked at the tray above him and then sighed in relief when the waitress furnished him with a filter coffee and a danish.

‘Nice pastry’, Gordon muffled.

‘So, Batman is gone,’ said Bruce, bringing his fingertips together. ‘ – but Jim Gordan and his people are still here.’

‘I am proud of my men, and women, Mr Wayne…well most of the time,’ Gordan agreed.

Sipping and taking a bite of his palmier, Bruce felt the guilt building inside him. ‘How about I give your department a donation. More equipment, more jobs, more resources…’

Confused, and clearly very uncomfortable, Gordan scratched the back of his head. ‘Gee – there can’t be any favours in return – I – I am not that kind of man, Mr Wayne.’

‘Of course not!’ said Bruce, affronted, and he continued with conviction. ‘You’re one of the most honourable men in this city. When Gotham had sunk low into crime and iniquity, you were the man who said _no_. You helped clean these streets, Gordan. A man of virtue, and principle, and… _Justice.’_

_Oh shit._

The silence between them was interrupted by the crunching of the palmier.

‘Mr Wayne…? Are you _drunk?’_

Bruce swallowed then spoke. ‘I am sober enough to discuss…this.’

Behind his glasses, Bruce frowned: Gordon’s eyes were moving everywhere. _He’s studying the width of your shoulders!_ In an instant, Bruce tried to make himself look smaller.

‘Gee Mr Wayne…it’s generous and all…I want to say yes…but, I think I need to leave _this_ be.’

That said, the commissioner wrestled out of his moon-seat and cleaned his hands on his trousers. ‘Nice pastry. Thanks!’

_Don’t stand up._

‘You’re welcome, Jim.’

‘ _Yeah._ I – I am going…take care Mr Wayne.

Holding the last of his purple latte, Bruce watched Gordon exit the patisserie and back out into normality.

_You…idiot._

*

Sports Car safely tucked in, Bruce ascended the steps with his many bags, staggering to the front door in the hazy, velvet twilight. Blinking, he looked twice at the window. He was sure he saw a small, black faced curtain-twitcher. Upon opening the door, he was met with a hysterical Tiffany.

 _‘Where have you been?’_ she demanded. ‘I have been trying to ring you most of the day – .

Sauntering through the house and over to the walnut bar, Bruce was followed doggedly by the small, black woman at his heels.

‘Alfred: he _collapsed!_ Bruce! He was lucky not to have been taken to hospital!’

‘Tiffany, Tiffany,’ Bruce assured amusedly, ‘…he does it on purpose.’

_‘What!’_

‘When I was a little boy, I loved nothing more than Go-Kart racing. The club was called _The Little Revsons_. – and when I came off - once - Alfred made such a fuss – made me feel so _guilty_ – I stopped going…always after approval…always wanting to please that man.’

Tiffany’s mouth moved up and down like a goldfish out of water. ‘What has this got to do about _anything!_ He almost ended up in hospital tonight, _Bruce!’_

Rattling around in the disguised fridge, Bruce let out a hearty sniff. He took the glass and poured himself a little milk, and Tiffany relaxed slightly, and then he took the coffee liqueur and poured some, and then he topped the rest of the glass off with vodka.’

Tiffany gasped, ‘ – _Bruce!’_

‘That’s the drink of mobsters and sleazy casino owners, that is,’ said Alfred. Suddenly appearing at the door.

Sunglasses still on, Wayne turned around. Lip folded like a cantankerous horse: ‘PISS OFF!’

Tiffany gasped again. 

‘Not even your father would have spoken to me like that,’ assured Alfred solemnly. Then he paced slowly, coming to stand between Tiffany and Bruce. ‘Where have you been all week?’ he inquired. His voice was heavy with sorrow and disappointment. ‘You’re not turning up at meetings. You’re not turning up at mealtimes. I barely see you…and then I get a personally delivered letter from Miss Kyle – and – a disturbing one at that!’

Bruce’s lip quivered before it bloomed into a full-blown, bestial snarl. ‘OUT! OUT!’ he roared at Tiffany.

But Tiffany went and firmly stood by Alfred’s side.

‘Fine! _I’LL_ GO OUT! Don’t you say a word, Al, _don’t you say a fucking word!’_ he growled. Waving his finger dramatically at Tiffany as he said so.

‘Yes, Thomas.’

‘Fuck you!’

*

Bruce slammed the door hard and stomped the long way around to the back of the house, and towards Alfred’s rose garden. He was sincerely thinking about stamping all over Alfred’s marigolds, but a small voice threatened to hound him mercilessly if he did. Instead, he slumped on the rose-covered swing and slurped his _White Russian_ loudly. 

_Clean yourself up._

‘Doesn’t matter – I am _retired!’_ Bruce spat.

_Clean yourself up, they need you._

‘They ALWAYS fucking need me. I am SICK of being needed. Why can’t I just…have something… _NICE!’_ Bruce opened his arms wide to the starry sky. ‘I am sick of being _grateful!_ I am sick of being _guilty!_ I am sick of being…’ and, after wrestling with his thoughts, he finally said the word: ‘sad.’

There was no answer from the stone voice.

‘Oh fuck!’ Bruce panted, desperately wanting to get away from himself…and then he noticed them. Calming him. Like small, shimmering black angels, the bats above him looped feverishly in circles grabbing moths and other insects on the wing.

‘Oh, fuck…’ said a small, defeated voice inside himself. _Oh, fuck indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ##### Chapter Track:
> 
> 'My Ordinary Life', by THE LIVING TOMBSTONES
> 
> _https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Zj0JOHJR-s_


	6. Sober Up Brucie Boy! (Part 1)

‘How’s Alfred?’

Mr Gladlow smiled politely. It is customary to enquire about family. Bruce had asked after Mrs Gladlow, Jane and Isaac (he forgot the middle two) and Oliver. Jane was a lawyer, Isaac a nature photographer currently in Borneo, and little Ollie was about to start his second year at Oxford. Oh, and Mrs G was going to be a grandma. Jane was due in September. A full and happy house.

‘Alfred’s fine’, replied Bruce. His voice positively downbeat.

‘Right.’ Mr Gladlow looked at the way Bruce was holding his cocktail: his softly lolling head and rolling stance. Bruce swallowed the liquor before anymore could escape the glass. _No how are you Brucie!_ Mr Gladlow slowly turned away, smiling.

Bruce clicked his tongue, making his right hand into a cowboy-gun.

‘Bruce! _Bruce!_ a sultry voice gasped, pushing its way through silver and green balloons. A red satin glove latched itself to him and was lost in the carousel of people and confetti-paper curls. At the far end of the ballroom a great banner overhung a smaller one. Metallic writing shone from emerald drapes. ‘MENTAL WELLBEING FOR GOTHAM’ and ‘SUPPORT ARKHAM: 3rd GALA DINNER’ gleamed for all to see.

A _ching-ching-ching-ching_ summoned the dancers to the table and they all took their seats. Bruce nearly fell down two steps – independent of one another – and slid his way to his spot at the table. ‘BRUCE WAYNE’ winked up at him from a little folded card.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for your attendance…’

Bruce studied the back of his hand. It was heavy and when he waved it, it just seemed to go on floating. The audience clapped and he brought his hands together too late. 

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, we have raised so much, and we want to thank each and every one of you for your generosity. Please, everyone: a round of applause for EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU!’

The room erupted. A frantic flapping – and Bruce imagined a million-million bats taking off at once. His own wild clapping went on after everyone stopped. He stopped.

‘As customary, we would like to give special thanks to our benefactors.’ Another round of applause. ‘– and to present this small token to the person who has gifted the most. Would you please welcome –.’ Bruce made to stand. ‘– Mr Johan Sundberg!’

Bruce sat again and applauded, ignoring the shocked faces that turned to him and the narrow eyes that accused him. Mr Sundberg was not from Gotham and Bruce wanted to show him his gratitude, so he clapped louder still. The woman to his left full on scowled at him. The tall blonde man strode on stage and accepted the gigantic lily-white bouquet. The speech came to an end, and the table rose to continue their dancing, drinking and chatter. Confused and hateful whispers made their way from the clusters of people to his ear. He grabbed another cocktail and sunk into a chair at the back of the room.

‘ _Bruce!_ Oh, Bruce.’ A voluptuous, red satin bell sank into the chair next to him. The red dress rustled as it sunk and a woman’s laughing face emerged. Brunette curls and perfect teeth, and greedy eyes that didn’t match the sexy crook of her smile. 

‘What happened, Bruce?’ Her sultry voice was nothing like Catwoman’s, not nearly as sexy or sophisticated. _Was she drunk?_ Of course, everyone was drunk – _weren’t they?_

‘Don’t feel sad.’ Her velvet hand stroked his cheek meaningfully. ‘– there’s too many mean and ungrateful people in the world!’

Her polished scarlet lips were too close to his face. ‘I bet you have so much more to give,’ and she actually leaned forward and bit his ear.

‘Hey!’ Bruce pulled away.

‘Brucie Baby? _Don’t_ you remember me?’

‘No,’ he rumbled indignantly, trying to brush her persistent hand away. The lights above him were spinning; the crowd on the ballroom floor moving too fast. 

Arching her bare-skinned back, she pushed her frilly bosom towards him, clasping his hand to them. ‘Let me help you remember.’

A heat was beginning to creep up his neck. A horrible, drumbeat heat.

‘Come on playboy – _play with me_.’

Bruce sat still as stone.

‘Come on. Let’s go someplace else.’

She took his hand in hers and tried to pull him up. Then her gloved hands snaked under his shirt and satin fingertips found his nipple. Iron-fingers grabbed her by the throat and hurled her from his lap. The cocktail glass smashed. She landed hard with a gasp and Bruce stood, roaring like an animal. The dancing stopped and the whole room fell silent. He could see the whites of everyone’s eyes. Red satin shook. The woman crumpled at his feet began to wail. Bruce’s mouth hung open and he felt a line of drool stain his chest. Stumbling into chairs – falling twice – he left. 

He fell into the nearest hired Sedan.

The chauffeur turned to him. ‘Wayne Manor, sir?’

‘No. Just drive.’

*

A taxi brought Bruce back. The gates of Wayne Manor opened and he rolled onto the stone and mid giggle promptly vomited down himself. He vaguely remembered a hand leading him back to the house, and him fighting with that hand until it gave up on him. Laughing and shouting, angry and paralysed at the hilarity of the world, he found the most gregarious artist among the towering cd racks and turned ‘Ricky Martin’ up to an obnoxious volume. And then: he danced. Bruce thought he was putting on quite a show. His moves were slick, and when he bumped into furniture – smashing a couple of vases – he simply took another swig. Then the music stopped. The hand was back. He swiped and fought, but eventually he let it guide him to a bathroom where he was violently sick. Some vomit missed and Bruce felt it squelching under his palms. Time became impossible. Somewhere between having cold water splashed in his face, a facecloth rubbing his mouth, and his clothes taken off him, he found himself in bed. Then he found himself asleep. Then he found himself back in the abandoned subway where The Pact had made base. Old Five Points. He was naked, but had Selina Kyles boots on…and Bane was pugnaciously throwing bottles at him while he danced. John wasn’t there, but Harley Quinn was accusing him…and he was sure Batman was in the background…but wearing Joker’s make-up…and finally…finally he woke up and saw the afternoon sun. _Oh…SHIT!_

He rolled back across the covers. He was done. He had to be.

The pounding in his head constricted. Every time he moved it seared him. He made himself get up and go to the bathroom, drinking as many pints from the tap as his stomach could hold. Moaning, he lay back down across the sheets.

He would be good now. He would be a gentleman. Press ups, meetings at the office – he’d help Alfred round the house – he would present a confident, sober face. He would be respectful and respected.

_John?_

Something unfurled and twisted in his belly. Silently, two fat tears fell past his eyes and shakily he pushed them back up. John. Why hadn’t he visited John? He was so distant now. Lost. Did his silence mean John felt for him? _What, what, what_ did John feel for him?

That night in the control room of Ace Chemicals – when betrayal had been a sharp tang – wounding them both – there had been _connection._ No Harley, or Alfred. There had been understanding, and bitterly, they had seen each other honestly.

As painful as that first meeting in Arkham had been, it was a moment Bruce would cherish.

All traces of Joker had been wiped from John’s face. His slender body had been fitted with garments of pale cream, angles squaring the cloth, collar bone protruding – and his right hand, like a swollen marshmallow, wrapped in bandages. His green eyes were round with surprise – narrowed with suspicion – when Bruce had come to see him. Delighted when he had stayed.

‘Bruce!’ 

Fragility flickered across John’s face. His shoulders hunched and his upper body bobbed. A pale hand fidgeted along the side of his seat, like the chair he sat on was a boat and he had to keep himself steady on water.

‘Hi John.’ Bruce was timid at first, they both were. They stared at each other, not knowing how the other was going to react. Bruce cleared his throat, but it was John who spoke first.

‘Why?’ His thin voice was high, like a child, innocent of any reason why Bruce would bother to show for someone like himself. John knew he was a loser, knew what people thought…and wanting to be anything else had somehow made him a villain too.

‘Why?’ John repeated. Dazed.

Thick fingers fiddled with the end of a pin-striped tie. Bruce smoothed it out repeatedly, trying to think of the right words or find the courage.

‘I wanted to make sure you were alright.’ The front of the tie could do to be a little longer. ‘It wasn’t fair what happened.’

John looked astounded; one eye large, one eye squinting. ‘Are you _apologising?’_

Bruce dropped his hands and made himself look at John. He wanted to be truthful. ‘In a way, yes.’

The milky face was caught between delight and something bitter.

‘Are you sorry?’ Bruce asked.

‘WELL! In a way, I accept your apology!’ beamed John, showing his teeth. John waited for Bruce to express gratitude; he guessed a face-twitch was as good as anything. ‘You’re welcome!’

‘ – for the people who died?’

John ignored him. ‘You know, you were _pretty good_ at being criminal. _That Wayne charm_ – gets’em every time.’ He held his left hand up, spreading his fingers like they do in showbiz. Then he glowered, _‘you certainly knew how to work me…’_

‘I am sorry, John.’

‘ – but I bet you use a LOT of people,’ John continued. ‘I bet you HAVE TO use a lot of people. _For the greater good_. FOR _JUSTICE!_ Nothing personal about it. Ain’t that right Bruce?’ John’s voice was sly, or maybe it was thoughtful. He didn’t seem angry. 

_Be honest_. ‘Yes. I suppose I do. Did.’

John raised a green eyebrow in question. Those teacup ears never missed a thing.

 _Be honest_. ‘I am retired.’

Pale lips made a great round ‘O’ and John clapped his hand to his open mouth, giggling frantically. _‘Whoa!_ BOY!’ The giggles turned to cackles. ‘ – _that’s a shocker_.’

He couldn’t help it, Bruce smiled and then he began to laugh too. Sounding like every other madman in this place.

John brought the laughter to a close. ‘So HOW are you going to be _interesting now?_ I mean I have my green HAIR – you have LOTS of green _smackers!_ What CAN money buy that is more interesting than:’ and John flapped his elbows, squeaking like a rodent.

Bruce smiled. It was a good question. ‘I don’t know, John.’

 _‘Hey!_ What happened to Dr Leland?’

Taken aback by the sudden change of topic, Bruce brought his hand to his head, thinking. ‘Requested transfer after Lady Arkham’s riot – I think – a lot of doctors did.’

‘Oh, shame. SO, _what now?_ You and Cat-lady? _Puurweow!’_

Bruce shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think so.’

 _‘Urgh! Tie the knot already!’_ John flopped his good hand over in disgust. ‘Treat her to a weekend in Paris and let her steal something expensive’, he suggested. ‘I’ve never been to Paris. This guy had though – APPARENTLY the Frenchies are _RUDE!_ – and there are these mimes everywhere. _Sprayed grey like stone!’_

Posing like a statue, John made his eyes glaze over. His great mittened hand rigid until he winced.

‘Oww!’

Bruce sighed. ‘No. No night in Paris.’

‘Aww. Get a dog THEN. Turn _Wayne Manor_ into a sanctuary for orphaned dogs – or cats – _or exotic mice no one wants_ – or whatever!’

‘John?’

‘Yes, Bruce?’

‘Do you want me to come and visit again?’

‘Oh, _am I talking too much?’_ and John looked genuinely apologetic.

‘No, that’s not what I meant. Do you _want me_ to visit you again?’

‘Yes,’ said John abruptly. His body rapt with attention. Even his breathing was deliberate. 

‘You really _meant_ what you said back at the plant?’ Lustrous eyes bored into him, searching for an answer. ‘You _really considered_ me your friend… _even if it was only for a moment?’_

‘Yes. More than a moment, John.’

White face slackened. Thin lips speechless. His green eyes shone like pale jade, a little wet at the edges.

‘Why?’ asked John’s voice, confused.

‘Just let me be your friend,’ and Bruce held out his wide-knuckled hand to John. John took it cackling.

‘Ok, Brucie Boy!

 _Brucie Boy._ Bruce hated _Brucie_ , but not so much from John. It was something the boys at school called him, and then again at college – not offensively, they just did. Every so often somebody would call him this; being too familiar or trying to flirt with him. His head was still pounding, but if he lay really still it was a drumbeat and not an anvil. He spread his thick fingers in the empty space next to him, stroking the bed sheets and then, quite unexpectedly, he began crying. Bolting upright, his head seared as if struck with a sledgehammer. He imagined Harley Quin’s revenge. 

_Stop it._

He had to stop crying. 

Taking several blinding steps to his sacred draw he lifted the musky cigar box and took it blindly back to his bed. He placed the dead bat in the centre of his palm and let its magic work. As with a crucifix, he bowed his head and let his thumb explore the hairy chest, needle teeth, and leather skin. The tips of its fingers ended in tiny pin-like claws. He was no longer crying. He was calm. The Batcave invaded his brain and he felt a bloom of dread flare in his chest, but he kept hold of the bat and soon even this melted away. Eventually he was able to put the dead bat back in its cigar box, back in the draw. The cigar box had been his Father’s. 

He would get dressed. Tomorrow was a new day. The day he would wake up when his alarm sounded, put on a clean suit and drink nothing but water. Lots, and lots of water.

*

Muscles gently sore from callisthenics, Bruce pushed through the doors of Wayne Enterprises with his head held high. He seized control of the board room, listened respectfully to other people’s opinion and steered company projects in the right direction. He caught up with Tiffany, ignored her looks of concern, and praised her for her commitment and ingenuity. _Lucius Fox, your daughter is a genius and she is making us all proud._ He finished work with a pint of water and a kale-tropical fruit smoothie. Now he would buy flowers.

Sitting at the steering wheel of his car, he mastered the weight of guilt in his chest. He would apologise when he was at their feet. Great finger-like shadows washed over him as he passed the graves. He came to stand at Martha’s and Thomas’s own marble face. It was surprisingly simple: neat and black with grey veins, and two vessels cut from the same stone that were intended to hold flowers. Bruce stopped. He’d expected to see the last set of flowers he brought dried and withered – instead there were two freshly cut bunches. _Alfred._ In a spasm of shame he brought his hands to his face, and then slid them into a prayer, bending one knee as he sunk closer to his parents. Silently he prayed, letting the wetness creep down at the corner of his eyes. He would do better. He, who never forgot his duty, would find a way. 

_Please, just tell me if I can have John?_

He had said what he had come to say. The grass had a flattened patch where he had knelt. He had asked forgiveness and he had been honest. Bruce brought his fingers to his lips and then back down to kiss his parents tomb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ##### Chapter Track:
> 
> 'This Town Ain't Big Enough For Both Of Us', by THE SPARKS
> 
> _https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cj0TkPEdWd0_


	7. Sober Up Brucie Boy! (Part 2)

Alfred never spoke about the past month, and when Bruce asked him to get rid of the liquor he liked to drink, Alfred did so without question or retort. In truth Alfred had being doing so in secret anyway, but every time a bottle was removed, two more would appear. Both men slipped into a new normal, more or less like the old normal – but without Batman or Batmobile or Batcomputer. That was until Alfred approached Bruce one afternoon, teetering towards him with a small paper file.

‘Master Bruce. I took the liberty of researching people you may find suitable – I hope you don’t mind?’

Bruce looked up from the chesterfield, puzzled. He put the newspaper to one side and prepared to listen.

Encouraged Alfred continued, opening the file. ‘It may not be my place to do so, sir, but I rather thought these men could be a suitable date?’

_Oh my god._

‘William is a very promising young poet, studied classics at Cambridge and is making the rounds of all the major cities across the US. Juan is the son of a billionaire, Spanish, but loves taking his fashion to new places – he is in Gotham this fall. _Erm_. Akimitsu is –.’

‘ALFRED!’

His butler paused respectfully, crossing his hands.

‘Should I leave the file here, sir?’ and he tilted the handsome prospects towards Bruce.

‘No, Alfred, you should not!’ Bruce rubbed his face, trying to get his tomato-cheeks back to a normal shade.

‘May I ask what Master Bruce is looking for?’ Alfred enquired, tentatively. ‘It would help me when I am searching?’ 

_God he was embarrassed_. And now he could feel two hot tears at the crook of each eye. He reached for his throat that was closing.

Gently, his butler sank into the chair opposite. Putting the file down on the lacquered table.

‘It’s John,’ asked Alfred softly, ‘isn’t it?’

Bruce nodded. He barely moved his head, but he nodded.

‘But _why,_ Alfred?’ Bruce’s voice was pained, disbelieving. ‘Pale, lanky, uneducated… _violent!’_

‘It’s because he’s damaged, Bruce.’

Wayne’s eyes widened and he looked fleetingly like a skull with glass marbles popping out the sockets. 

‘Alfred, _that is cruel!’_ the indignation in his voice shook. 

He could not believe these words had been spoken by Alfred. Not by his butler. Not by his friend. Not by the person who knew him best.

Alfred swallowed. ‘Cruel these words may be, sir, but they are the truth non the less.’

Bruce railed. ‘You’re saying I am like him! – _like them!_ ’ Spit flecked the air with every acid word. ‘What! – that I have some kind of _hard-on_ for killers and criminals?’

With his whole left arm quaking Alfred held it steady with his right, and with the resolve of a father he forced himself to look Bruce deep in the eye. He chose his next words with great deliberation:

‘I am saying you _could_ have been like them. I think Batman was as much Bruce Wayne’s enforcer as he was the criminals he fought. I watched a perfect little boy have his perfect world shattered. I watched that same boy grow up in perfect misery. I always knew his darkness would have to come out – _he would take someone else’s life or his own!_ I feared it more than I can put into words. That’s why I encouraged Batman. Batman saved Bruce Wayne and that is more important to me than him saving Gotham.’

Shining, livid eyes watched the tears roll down Alfred’s face. Bruce was perfectly horrified. Unable to think. Unable to know his own feeling. He wanted to throttle the man. He wanted to hug him. Undeniably, Bruce had never, ever loved or hated Alfred more clearly than he did in that moment. 

It was too much. With a scrape of wood on polished wood he made to leave.

‘Don’t! _Please_ sit! We need to do this…don’t walk out on me now!’ the older man begged.

Straight backed, the shirt collar crisp at his jaw line, Bruce strode seven heavy steps to the farthest wall.

‘I can’t look at you, Alfred.’

‘Then don’t look – _listen_.’ Alfred’s voice was desperate, panicked. Unconsciously his hands clasped and unclasped as he brought his body to the very edge of his seat, leaning as closely as he could towards the other man’s back, with its sharp contours and impressive width. The steel shoulders stretched every inch of the expensive fabric to a shuddering, gilt formality. Then quite suddenly the back-lit figure bellowed.

‘YOU ARE _**NOT**_ MY FATHER!’

There was a whining noise and it took Alfred several heady heart beats to realise that the sound was not coming from himself. Alfred saw the tears rolling frantically onto Master Wayne’s polished loafers and he made towards him with his arms outstretched. A thick elbow lunched suddenly backward and with a splintering rasp a hole appeared in the wall next to the trembling, uberman’s shoulders. 

Mr Wayne fell deathly silent.

The only sound in the room was the _tick-ticking_ of the grandfather clock and of Alfred’s own heart beat that seemed to pound throughout every cell of his body and out – out – out into the twinkling light of the room. After what seemed an hour, Bruce finally turned around. His face mask-like and handsomely composed.

‘I am going for a drive and then I am going to see John. Don’t put yourself out, I am eating out tonight.’

‘Bruce –.’

‘I am going for a drive and then I am going to see John. And tomorrow I am going to fix that. It will be like it never happened.’

‘Bruce –.’

‘I mean it: don’t put yourself out. Do something you enjoy. I’ve purchased that new book you wanted and there is an unopened bottle of Cointreau at the back of the bar – I don’t know how you can drink that shit – but hey, I know you like it,’ said Bruce cracking a smile.

‘You’re unbelievable,’ murmured Alfred, clutching his chest. ‘You’re _killing_ me…’

‘I am not killing you, Alfred,’ said Bruce Wayne smiling. ‘You’ll be here when I get back, you’ll be here tomorrow. You’ll be here for years to come.’

‘That’s not what I mean…’ said Alfred faintly and he sank back into the smart leather seat. ‘– and no, my darling boy. I will not be here forever. You _need_ someone…’

Bruce stood casually with his hands in his pockets. ‘Yeah, you will. You’ll be here.’

The clock chimed five.

‘Right! I am going for a drive and I am off to see John!’ Bruce turned jovially to Alfred and waited expectantly for some positive remark or acknowledgement from his butler.

‘Drive sensibly…for god’s sake be safe.’

‘Always! Enjoy your evening and don’t drink the Cointreau in one go! See you soon, Al.’

Turning, and with a bounce in his heal, Master Wayne strode from the room, leaving Alfred to wearily cradle his head. When the footsteps faded out of hearing and the room fell silent, a part from the _tick-ticking_ of the great clock, Alfred uttered: ‘You are _not_ fair Master Bruce…and yes… _you are killing me._ ’

*

_Vroom-vroom-vrooooom. Chiga-chiga-chiga._

The smart, swanking-red of Wayne’s sports car glided past Arkham’s notorious iron gates and into a reserved parking bay at the back of the hospital. Since John had been incarcerated, he had insisted it be reserved all the time, in exchange for a generous donation and double the pay of the bay of course. Bruce was sure the doctors and nurses regarded him with suspicion, but he didn’t care. 

Professional footsteps mingled oddly with devilish laughter and spasmic, anguished shouts. A sound that came from every fault in the white-washed walls and up between the cracks in the tiles. Bruce hated the tiles. They were that insipid sea-sick green that accompanied the elderly and the dying; on hospital curtains and on carpets in care homes. It was an interior far from the smart, polished walnut of Wayne Manor. God, he wanted John away from this place.

_I’ve got your back john._

‘Mr Wayne! But visiting hours are almost over!’ the receptionist said with a start.

‘I know. I’ll make it quick. I have to see John.’

‘John Doe? Well yes, but he’s just got settled – not been too good this past day or two! Gives the good doctors a lot of lip. He could be less physical too, you know.’

‘I’ll make it quick,’ assured Bruce and he slid a generous quantity of crisp, green notes towards the receptionist. She raised one plucked eyebrow and faintly sneered at the money – halting at the look in Wayne’s eye. There was a steel there she thought _mad_.

‘Alright, if you insist,’ she said unwillingly. Plump hand resting importantly on her chest, she continued: ‘You know something, Mr Wayne? I don’t think your wellness-crusade is helping. We see a lot of patients come and go, but we see an _awful_ lot more come and _stay_. I don’t think Mr Doe is leaving any side of this century. Maybe you should let the professionals handle him.’

‘What? Professionals like Dr Harleen Quinzel,’ Bruce said tersely.

The receptionist coughed affectedly. ‘Yes, well, the doctors don’t like lip. I am assuming with _that_ -,’ she said looking at the money, ‘- you’ll be wanting to see John outside his cell?’

‘Why yes,’ and Bruce leaned forward to look pointedly at the receptionist’s name badge, _‘Emma_ , I do.’

‘Ok, you know the routine,’ and she quickly rustled the money away beneath her desk. 

‘Take care, Mr Wayne.’

*

_‘Bruce!’_

‘Hi John.’

Bruce pulled the chair the guard had set closer to the opened hatch at the cell door. John’s room was grim, with mismatched green and grime-white tiles along the walls, a grimier tile floor and a window that constantly cast a set of long cylindrical shadows made by the bars placed on the inside of the frame.

‘Well this is _unexpected_ ,’ said John beaming manically. ‘What gives? _Did I miss something?’_

‘No – I just wanted to see you. I have something I need to ask you and I am not sure how to…’ Bruce’s voice trailed off as his brow creased pensively. 

Looking first confused and then concerned, John nodded encouragingly. ‘Ok BRUCE – fire away!’

‘We’re friends aren’t we, John? Despite everything that happened, we’re friends? But here’s the thing, John…certain things have been laid to rest and my future is taking a new direction…a more stable, secure, solitary direction.’

Smiling, John nodded for Bruce to continue.

‘Do you want to be more than friends, is what I am trying to say,’ quavered Bruce.

‘Well sure – BEST FRIENDS it is!’ said John promptly.

‘No! _No._ That’s not what I am trying to say…’ Bruce’s voice trembled. ‘Look – I…’ and he rubbed his brow and the back of his neck, trying to soothe the cocktail of emotions bubbling inside him. Wayne pushed his face closer to John, so his mouth was at the edge of the hatch.

‘Do you have more to _give?_ ’ he appealed meaningfully.

‘More _Bruce?_ ’ exclaimed John, clearly puzzled by this game. ‘This is it! This is ME? – and hell, I don’t even know who _me_ is half the time! There are a heck of a lot of me’s in here Brucie, let me TELL you! _I thought you knew that?’_

‘That’s _not_ what I mean. IF you ever get out of here: do you have more to give me? Do you _want_ to have more to give me?’

John looked muddled and then he gradually smiled. ‘Well, let me tell you: I can do some pretty neat balloon animals – I’ll even make you _a tommy gun!’_

‘No! _That’s not what I mean!_ ’ Bruce hissed, banging his fist on the cell door. ‘Have you ever thought what it would be like to _kiss_ me?’ and his gut clenched as he finished the sentence. A small voice berated him for revealing himself like this.

Explosive laughter erupted from behind the cell-door. ‘ _Bruce!_ You’re making me _blush_. Well, SURE – I’ll kiss you if it’ll make you happy! ANYTHING FOR BRUCIE BOY!’ and John puckered his lips to the hole.

‘NO! Are you _gay!_ If you’re medicated enough will you settle?’ Bruce’s voice was near hysterical. ‘Do you want to settle with _me?’_

For the first time John’s face went still and with a look of utmost concern he ruminated for a full five minutes.

‘This morning, I woke up to several mice, all in LITTLE _sassy JAZZ_ costumes, dancing along the edges of my bed…just for me. It was _hilarious_ , and the voices thought so too! They LAUGHED and then they kept shouting. Then suddenly they’re telling me I am worthless and that I have to do _something_ about the mice and then the mice start cutting each other up. They’re pulling each other’s heads off and _twisting_ and screaming. And then I remember – I think it was my _Father_ – telling me what he’d do if I didn’t behave myself and then he showed me: he took my mouse and he took a meat cleaver and he separated that mouse from its head. And I am laughing and I am thinking about all the nurses who float past my door every hour and I am thinking how _funny_ it would be to twist their heads clean off! And then all the _sassy-little-jazz-mice_ are suddenly TERRIFIED of me – and I am trying to explain myself – and then I am stepping on them – and before they go _POP_ their eyes are ballooning out of their heads – you know – like a cartoon. _It wasn’t funny_ …and then before you know it – it’s time for the meds! And I spend the rest of my day _comatosed_ …just sat in a chair…with nothing in my mind…and the day is over before I had chance to wake up…So, BRUCE!’ 

The jingling voice dropped to a single sober tone. 

_‘Do you really think I have the brain-space I need to wonder if I am gay? Do you really THINK I can answer a single one of your questions?_ I mean I WANT to -,' said Joker quickly, looking at the expression on Bruce Wayne’s face, ‘– _but do you really think I can?’_

Joker finished earnestly. Really, really earnestly.

Sobered in a way he had not been since he laid Batman to rest, Bruce sat still, going over and over things in his mind. Loosing himself in the two green pools that were John's eyes, he let the silence make sense of things.

‘John. I am sorry.’

‘No – don’t. Don’t. You’re sad, you’re going to MAKE _me_ sad – and – GOD DAMN IT – this is supposed to be _happy!_ A SURPRISE VISIT FROM BRUCE! _Happy!_ Happy!’

Violently folding his arms, John echoed Bruce’s own pained expression. ‘Bruce, did I do something wrong?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Bruce quickly.

‘Oh, good. Then LET _me_ tell you a joke.’

‘John.’

_‘Yes, old sport!’_

‘I’d take it all away if I could.’

*

‘Alright, let’s talk.’

Alfred woke with a start and blearily tried to smarten himself in his chair. The grandfather clock read seven minutes past three. It was still dark outside and the numerous owls that inhabited the estate were calling to each other. Languidly Bruce slumped in his chair. It was a pose so uncharacteristically slovenly that his butler looked him full in the face in question.

‘Bruce! My god – your eye! Did John hurt you?’

Lazily and, according to Alfred, a little too sinisterly, Bruce grinned. 

‘No,’ said Bruce softly, and he clinked the bottle Alfred had only just noticed to his lips.

‘But –’

‘Alfred!’ and Bruce half-slapped the side of his chair, before relaxing into another ridiculous grin. ‘I accept that I will never, ever, _ever_ be settling down with John.’

With a hiccup, Bruce brought his hand quickly to his mouth. Burp suppressed, he continued: ‘ _IF_ he EVER, gets released, well then, he’ll live in a child’s…state. He has a child’s mind, Al. A mind that is occasionally interrupted by moments of clear and wonderful lucidity – this I ache for – but for the most part, Al, he _NEEDS_ a child’s state.’

The old man’s face slackened with such sadness that it almost made Bruce cry. Something he had vowed not to do tonight. Instead he pulled a wide and wicked smile.

‘You know what I’d like to do, Al?’ said Bruce slyly. ‘I’d like to get Selina all riled up and creaming her panties for me, and then I’d like her to walk in on me balls deep – no – being ridden – like a shiny, black stallion…and she’d just be like – _Oh!’_

This said, Bruce erupted into a lascivious fit of giggles. Snorting while his head rolled.

‘Sir, that’s –.'

‘I know, I know,’ Bruce whined mockingly. ‘I am an awful, disgusting person…’

The bottle was raised again and Master Wayne’s brow curved in stern though. ‘It’s the expectation I’d like to shatter, Al…the god damn awful presumption…’

‘Sir,’ asked Alfred gently, ‘how much have you had to drink?’

Master Wayne looked offended. ‘Enough Alfred! _Enough!’_ He scowled before lapsing into another cheeky grin, ‘but I can always have more!’

Alfred rose and made to take the bottle.

 _‘Leave me be Alfred!’_ Bruce hissed. ‘You wanted me to spill my heart, well, here I am, booze in hand!’

Clearly bested in this round of take-the-bottle, Alfred returned to his seat. He sighed and softly rested his hands in his lap, thinking.

‘But Bruce, John is so vulnerable – childlike, as you say – how do you know – erm – you simply don’t just want to _cuddle_ him?’

‘Oh, I do!’ reassured Bruce. ‘I wanna cuddle with him. I wanna protect him. But I wanna do things to him too – I want to _ride_ him!’

‘Yes, your stallion analogy is quite vivid Sir. But, have you ever actually…erm…and what about those women you take to the parties, sir?’

Wayne stared at him incredulously with one eyebrow raised as if his virility being questioned stung his ego. Virility among men that is. He smiled at his old man’s innocence.

‘Have I ever actually _fucked_ a man, Alfred? Yes – and _been fucked_ …and the girls…well they’re escorts. They ESCORT me and then I send them on home! Occasionally, if I am horny and if I am drunk enough, I let them touch me…I have a real _stallion-cock_ when I am horny!’

The bottle slipped in Bruce’s hand as he collapsed into a fresh fit of giggles, snorting like a horse between laughs.

‘This is all getting rather lewd, sir.’

 _‘Alfred!_ You wanted me to talk and here I am – _drunk?_ – yes – _embarrassed?_ – no! – well only in the morning – but I am here….AND… _I have accepted the situation with John.’_ In a tone that was the epitome of reason, Bruce finished: ‘that’s what you wanted isn’t it? _Acceptance of the things I can’t change…’_

‘Well sir, I have to say that I am pleased you are finding animals other than bats to be suitable allegories for yourself…because if it was called _Bat-dick_ I don’t think I could look you so easily in the eye again.’

Alarmed at just how much mirth he had caused, Alfred stared at Bruce, who was currently laughing so hard that his breath was coming out in a pained whistle. He was looking dangerously close to falling out of his chair too.

 _‘Oh! My God_ – my prudish butler!’

‘What I am trying to ask, sir, is that you have an outlet? You have men you see?’

The giggles subsided as Bruce fort to regain some measure of composure. He straightened himself, respectfully, and confirmed: ‘Yes Alfred.’

‘And do you – can you – _cuddle_ with any of these men?’

‘No. These are _big_ men Alfred. Depending on what I ask for depends on who takes the beating. We fuck furiously and we fuck _hard_ …and when I am ready for the next round, I pay up front. It’s as simple as that. Nothing cushy like emotions are ever present – just a _need_ that gets sorted.’

Catching the growing horror in Alfred’s face, Bruce added, ‘– but this is once in a blue moon you have to understand. Really Alfred – I haven’t been to them in over 6 months – well apart from tonight…I had need tonight.’

Alfred let out a half-gasp, half-sigh exclamation of dismay.

 _‘My god Bruce!_ Is there no one you can me _soft_ with? Anyone at all you can share a bit of your heart with?’

Thick, angular fingers played with the empty bottle.

‘My heart isn’t easily shared, Alfred, you should know that. That is why Selina is so easy – it’s a game – it’s a flirtation! _It isn’t real.’_

‘I think it may be real for Miss Kyle, sir,’ Alfred warned.

‘I know, and that’s why I am a terrible person,’ said Bruce earnestly. ‘I play games Alfred…I always have… _Bruce: The Charmer.’_

Silence resumed as the two men sat for a while. The air outside was still and Bruce was sure the owls were enjoying a good night's hunt. He was also sure he could hear the distant call of a fox wandering on the fringes of the woods that surrounded Wayne Manor. It was something Bruce rather enjoyed: catching a glimpse of a fox, or some other twilight beast, as he returned home from a long, hard night as Batman. Bruce loved the secret worlds that went on turning in the half-lit corners of the Earth. Despite appearances, he was quite the nature lover.

It was Alfred who was first to speak and his amused tenor pulled Bruce back from slumber: ‘Who’d have thought, eh? Gay Batman!’

‘No Alfred. Batman isn’t gay. Batman can’t be gay. Batman can’t be anything,’ said Bruce yawing so wide Alfred feared he might be swallowed.

‘Oh, I see, sir.’

The butler saw it was time for Master Wayne to have some much needed sleep and he got up to find the blanket he kept spare. With his boy safely tucked in he made to leave, then reconsidered. The butler turned: ‘Bruce?’

‘Ehemmm?’ came a dreamy voice.

‘Batman hasn’t retired, has he? You’re going to suit-up again soon, aren’t you, sir?

‘Yes Alfred.’

‘Bruce?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Promise me something?’

Bruce half-opened his eyes. ‘I’ll try…you know I’ll try.’

‘Promise me you’ll find someone to settle down with, when the time is right to…and if you can’t do that, promise me you’ll try to find someone that you can be soft with – someone that makes you happy?’

Taking a deep breath, Bruce answered. ‘It’ll be hard Alfred, but for you –,’ and Master Wayne cocked and fired his hand that he had made into a pistol, ‘– I’ll try.’

Smiling a small, sad smile, Alfred watched his boy’s breath slow to a soft rhythm, and, satisfied Master Wayne had been tended to, the butler turned to leave.

‘Alfred!’ cried Bruce suddenly.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Don’t let me kill you.’

The butler paused and straighten himself up. ‘I’ll try my best, sir,’ and then he added, ‘you have me for as long as I am alive, sir.’

‘Thanks, Al.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ##### Chapter Track:
> 
> 'Lord & Master', by APASHE
> 
> _https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2CE3yZKO_QA_


	8. Back to Black. (Part 1)

A streak of green sailed past the tip of his racket. It had been a frantic duel, but alas Bruce accepted defeat, panting. In truth he often let Elliot win. Elliot could be a sore loser, and it was far less suspicious to lose every other match than continually triumph with preternatural reflexes.

‘Ha-ha!’ Elliot trumpeted in victory.

Clapping each other on the shoulder, they gulped from their water bottles. Bruce wiped his lips on the back of his hand. He looked up. Elliot was studying him: ‘You seem more relaxed. I was getting worried about you, you know.’

Bruce laughed easily. ‘No need to worry about me, Tommy. I am always fine.’

‘You’re a villain in the social circles at the moment, you know,’ the doctor warned.

Bruce sighed. ‘Yeah.’ There was only so much a billionaire playboy could get away with. Throwing a socialite’s daughter to the ground, known slut or not, was definitely crossing a line. And rightly so, Bruce concluded. He was ashamed, but shame was so close to guilt, and he was always guilty.

‘When I spend money on them and their causes, they’ll soon forgive me.’ He’d already bought the girl in question a long week in the Bahamas as way of apology. She had wanted to bring a friend and so he had paid for her too.

Elliot frowned. ‘Bruce. I know you don’t have a stiff upper lip, but all your nonchalant posing is as good as…I know I am not in the shrink business…but I am in the brain business and I know of _head-doctors_ who are worth their salt.’

Bruce rested his hands on his racket and tilted his head to show that he was listening. Elliot continued: ‘I know I am a tease, but I have never pretended you don’t have your baggage. If you ever need to talk, let me know because I can put you in touch with genuine professionals, who won’t simply exploit you as a walking money bag.’

A wash of copper swept the tennis court; the wind continued, blowing the trees at the back. Autumn had come too quickly this year. Bruce nodded, smiling in appreciation at his friend. ‘Noted.’ Then, gripping his racket he deftly swung it round his head. ‘Will you beat me again?’ he smirked.

The doctor’s brow creased and his lips parted to say something, but then he swung his racket likewise and bounced on his heels. With renewed fire they took their positions.

‘Hey, Tommy!’ Bruce called.

‘Yes, chief?’

‘Thanks!’ – and he served the ball. A fuzzy, green fury shot across court.

*

He hadn’t closed the door on John. He hadn’t. He’d eased off visits – only visiting once a fortnight– for John’s sake. John didn’t need his intensity. Alfred had gently slid into the background; giving him the space he needed. Eventually – he confronted the cave. Removing John from this space was hard, so much harder than he thought it would be. Like preparing a funeral. He dismantled the rooms he had planned to look after John in. He wasn’t just going to keep him in there – there was the house, the wonderful garden, the woods. He was going to make John sane or at least saner than he would have been in Arkham. Healing him would have been the justice he deserved. Now, looking at it all through Batman’s eyes, he realised his mistake – his insanity. His blind arrogance. His selfishness. _Love?_ He couldn’t dwell on love. What he felt he pushed down, down, down, until it sunk into the grief of his parents – becoming just another soul he had to mourn. 

Shuddering fingers touched the cowl he had turned his back on for too long. Tears trembled past his eyes and landed cold near his feet. 

Grief. 

His secret power.

*

Arkham had no record of John’s birth date. So, they never celebrated it. John didn’t know either.

‘When would you like your Birthday to be, John?’ asked Bruce candidly.

John flattened his body to the table, thinking. ‘September!’ he trilled, popping up with a grin a mile wide.

‘It’s September now. Give me some time.’

John brought his hands to his head, squashing his hair. ‘October 13th.’

‘October 13th? Are you sure? You can’t change your mind and have a Birthday every month,’ Bruce warned.

A cheeky smirk played on the clown’s lips and then disappeared. ‘No. October’s good. _13_ is my favourite number!’

With raised eyebrows, Bruce took a mental note. He leaned forward: ‘Bats or mice?’

Narrowing his eyes, John scrutinised him with suspicion. ‘ _Are you crazy?_ We CAN’T have pets!’

‘Just tell me.’

John shrugged his shoulders. ‘BATS…I guess. Hey! – _is this a trick question?_ Bats are flying mice, _aren’t they?_ ’

Satisfied, Bruce smiled. ‘No, John. A bat is not a rodent. Bats are not even remotely related to mice. Bats belong to the order Chiroptera,’ he informed. ‘Perhaps it is better to think of them as flying shrews.’

‘Ky – opt – era’, John pronounced slowly.

‘Bingo!’

‘ _Hey Bruce!_ What’s your favourite Chiroptera.’

Bruce considered John’s question. ‘The Little Brown Myotis.’

‘Ooo – _why?_ ’

‘– because they’re the ones that mostly roost in the bat-boxes I place round the estate.’

‘You _give_ bats a place to sleep?’ John blinked.

Bruce nodded.

‘You, sir, are a _genuine_ gentleman,’ and John patted his hand proudly. The chains about his wrists chinked.

Despite the prick in his chest, Bruce savoured the touch…losing himself in thought.

‘Hey!’ John’s voice pulled him back. His vacant eyes stirred to life. ‘Do you know _any_ bat jokes,’ John asked.

Bruce shrugged, not really wanting to admit to the one he knew. ‘Ermm.’

‘Oh, go on – I PROMISE to laugh.’ Like an expectant terrier, John’s anticipation left no real option. 

_Ok. I’ll throw the ball._ Bruce cleared his throat a little. ‘Why did the vampire need mouthwash?’

John held up his hands.

‘…because he had bat breath.’ Bruce cringed at his own punchline. John, however, roared – slapping his thigh and chortling.

‘ _Hey Bruce_. What do you call a bat with a carrot in each ear?’

Bruce shrugged.

‘Anything you want – he CAN'T hear you!’

A snort of amused embarrassment escaped Bruce, and John, needing no further encouragement, erupted into Christmas-cracker two liners.

‘ _WHEN_ does a bat go "mooooo"? When it is learning a new language! – _What's_ more AMAZING than a talking bat? A _spelling_ bee!’

Bruce laughed politely. _Oh Jesus_.

‘ _What_ did the BAT say to the diabetic? Nice _gnawing_ you!’

John paused for dramatic effect, holding his arms wide. He caught Bruce’s eye. ‘Hey, Bruce. _What do you call a bat with Ebola?_ ’

Bruce hesitated, not sure if he wanted to know the answer.

‘African Batman.’

Despite being bad taste, Bruce genuinely laughed at that one. John took note.

Across the table John was watching him. There was something careful in his eyes. Considered. Bruce wanted to ask him…but knew he couldn’t. He wasn’t the only one wearing a mask. Not that John’s masks were all worn voluntarily…they weren’t… _madman_.

‘You seem…better.’ Bruce thought better seemed a nice way of putting it. Not: _you don’t seem as volatile – pumped full of drugs – out of control – strapped to a cot each night – drooling each day a way in an easy chair._

Spreading his right hand on the desk, John nodded. ‘It’s what happens when you’re good. YOU leave alone and they leave you alone.’ The scar on the back of his hand was even paler than the rest of the flesh; translucent and the exact width of a Batarang. 

John laughed, ‘medications are EXPENSIVE – guess they like saving them for _the real nutters!_ ’ 

His mind crept to the scar on the outside of his thigh. John’s knife had cut deep.

‘Buddy, you need to lighten up!’ 

Bruce became aware that he was sat in silence, frowning. He tried to smile, but he must have done it wrong because John started laughing.

‘ _C’mon Bruce!_ There’s a whole world outside. You’re telling me you CAN’T find _something_ fun to do _somewhere?_ ’ John stared at him in amused disbelief.

He had it. Bruce smiled and turned to stare at John. ‘Before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes,’ he said sternly.

John blinked: his face coloured a jumbled mix of alarm, apology and fury.

‘That way,’ Bruce continued, ‘when you criticize them, you're a mile away and you have their shoes.’

Like a snarling bark, the laughter began somewhere in John’s throat, erupting into howls that tickled the walls and slapped the light fittings above. Bruce was laughing too, and catching sight of the guard’s face – who mustn’t have heard the joke, but had the manic joviality sprung on him – laughed harder still.

Eventually they calmed down. There was something wicked in John’s eyes and it fixed him hungrily in appreciation. Bruce grinned back. A leer that told John more than Bruce realised.

*

Moonlight played on moth wings. Silver wonderings through flowers laden with nectar. Their tender flutters rarely escaped the flash of black that consumed them. The bats were too fast, their skin too dark to be seen in moonlight. All around the garden, leaves of all types had begun curling back on themselves, while others made swollen with fruit; pushing flowers, pushing scents. Perfumes sweet and acrid seduced insects out of crevices. By day and by night the garden was a quiver of life. Wind blew from the back of Wayne Manor and up and over Bruce and into the woods. The outline of trees swelled and Bruce heard the whispering of branches. Shrieks high and eerie: the howling of the Earth. Bruce continued to watch the bats. _What would it be like to be part of this world?_

Bruce stiffened. He knew the footsteps that approached him. He didn’t feel ready.

‘Alfred said I’d find you here.’ Selina spoke. Her voice held no malice, but a concern. A desire to reconcile.

Bruce didn’t know what to say, but he could tell Selina wouldn’t speak again till he said something. He slid himself to the left of the swing.

‘Please, sit down.’ She sat and he was calm. ‘ _Shhh._ Can you here that?’

Selina listened. ‘The clicking?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Bats, aren’t they?’

‘Yes.’ Said Bruce smiling.

Selina smiled back, but with her brow slightly creased. A frown and a smile said: _you’re crazy_. Bruce laughed.

A black shape darted close past Selina’s head. ‘Whoa!’ She ducked. Staring. Genuinely in awe at the tiny, jet devil.

‘You don’t need to do that. They’re not stupid, Selina. They won’t bump into you.’

‘Right.’ Her voice was uncertain. ‘What do these ones eat?’

‘Moths, other insects – like most bats,’ Bruce reassured her. ‘Sanguivorous bats are only found in one family, and that family only has three species.’

Selina nodded. ‘Sanguine? That’s blood, right?’

‘Yup. And they mostly prey on farm animals. So, don’t worry,’ he said firmly. Then he added, ‘You look nothing like a pig.’

‘How sweet’, she said, chuckling. 

Silence resumed. Together they watched the moon. She wasn’t quite full, but the magnificence of her pearlescence bathed them. Bruce imagined the chiming of a bell. A church fading in and out behind a canopy of cloud.

Softly, he spoke: ‘I owe you an apology.’

‘You do’, she agreed.

Sighing, he stood. ‘Let’s go back to the house and I’ll fix you a drink.’ She stood up beside him. He turned to her, a little apologetic. ‘We don’t have much to offer, but there is a couple of spirits and –.’

‘Cocos fine.’

Bruce blinked. Then he clicked his fingers, making the shape of a gun.

*

He led her past the sitting room, where Alfred was quietly reading, and up the stairs to his bedroom; two cups of cocoa in hand.

‘I can carry my own cocoa,’ Selina insisted.

He settled her on the sofa, putting one cup of cocoa down on the coffee table. Walking round her, he flipped the switch on the corner lamp and settled himself in a single chair opposite the table. He placed his own cup down and centred it.

‘Christ. Your bedroom is bigger than some people’s homes.’ She sounded impressed despite her mocking him.

Bruce’s expression was serious. ‘I don’t know what to say, Selina. I have felt so out of control…and the worst part is I didn’t even realise it…please forgive me.’

Selina raised her eyebrows; twitched her lips.

‘I am sorry,’ whispered Bruce.

‘Understood.’ She looked wistful, and Bruce’s stomach contracted. ‘Thank you,’ she smiled showing him she meant it. ‘I know you don’t like to be on the wrong side of virtue…you know what you were planning was mad though, right?’

His tongue tasted bitter. _Yeah, he knew._ Bruce nodded.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Her face looked so beautiful; she was trying to be gentle. For him.

Bruce shook his head.

‘About John?’

He got up and started taking his clothes off.

‘Wait! What are you doing?’ Selina startled.

‘Strip!’ he commanded.

‘No! _Why?_ ’ puzzled Selina, clearly alarmed.

‘ _Please_ , Selina. I want you to see me. I need you to get me out of your system.’

‘Arrogant much!’ she scoffed. With reluctance she dropped her blouse to the floor. Meanwhile Bruce had finished pulling his briefs down and had flung them – along with his socks – to the side.

‘Bruce!’ She sounded horrified. He chose to ignore her.

Completely naked and trembling with adrenaline, he stood in front of his bedroom mirror. It nearly stretched floor to ceiling, framed with elegant lines of oak. Simple, but the finish revealed craftmanship – for those able to discern it.

Selina had almost caught up. She had stripped down to her lingerie, no further. She even had on her tights with suspenders. All black. Straight off the catwalk and very, very handsome.

Poseidon-blue eyes stared back at him from the mirror. ‘I am beautiful, Selina.’ The command in his voice was terrifying. ‘I am big and strong, and scarred.’ He took his hands and let them explore up his thigh, his abs, his chest, his biceps. Touching himself as an artist touches marble. 

He turned to her. ‘I am iron.’ He extended his hand, his fingers ghosting her form. ‘I. Am. Beautiful.’ She felt the air move around her. ‘…and so are you.’

Stunned was her expression, her mouth gaped slightly. She attempted a smile. ‘Normally it is the guy telling the dame she’s beautiful…’ Her voice trailed off. Bruce’s glare was so serious.

‘You see a horse. Yes, Selina. He’s big and shiny, and his muscles ripple in the sunlight. He is the most beautiful animal you have ever seen. And, you want to touch him. You want to place your hands on his neck and have him look back at you the way you’re looking at him. But, Selina, you don’t want to fuck him? Do you?’

‘Ooo, Brucie likes ponies…’ her smirk fell flat. She had to agree, ‘No, Bruce. I don’t want to fuck a horse.’ Then, quiet and in pain, she whispered: ‘… _but, I wanted to love you_.’

‘Love and lust are not the same thing, Selina.’ Bruce’s voice was rough with emotion. ‘I want a relationship…I have so few friends…and I _want_ you to be my friend.’

‘…and I wanted you to be my,’ and her trembling lips mouthed: L-O-V-E-R.

Bruce couldn’t bring himself to wipe the tear from her eye. Instead he implored her: ‘Come on Selina, touch me.’

At first, she didn’t seem able too, but Bruce carefully brought her hands to his heart and spread his arms wide into a cross, letting her do as she willed. Her fingers caressed, then they turned brutal. She was crying, audibly now, and he felt her rage at the end of her fingernails. 

Bruce closed his eyes. ‘Hit me.’ 

‘No,’ Selina sobbed.

 _‘HIT ME!’_ and she did. Again, and again till his lips burst under her passion. 

She stopped, aghast.

‘Taste me.’ 

She didn’t hesitate this time. Her lips struck his own and sucked and bit till his face tingled with her desire…and her grief. He didn’t respond. He just let her. Their time passed in silence. Her tears quiet, till eventually they stopped altogether and Selina stood; sadder than before, but renewed and fully in her power.

Tears lingered on her cheekbones. ‘So, what’s lust like for Bruce Wayne?’ He liked her lightly derisive tone. She was like John, determined to subvert life’s melancholy.

He wanted to answer her. ‘Lust? I like big men. Hard men with power.’ He kissed her fingers and strode over to his wardrobe. ‘Instead of killing or being killed, I spill that life between my legs instead. I take this life from others and I let them take it from me.’

He handed her one of his dressing gowns, silk with an Ichimatsu checkerboard of black and ivory squares.

‘So…when Batman is fighting...?’ She paused, unsure if it was appropriate to finish the sentence.

‘No,’ he said, sliding his own red gown on. ‘Batman doesn’t have an erection while fighting.’ He made himself smirk. ‘He’s not allowed to…but Bruce can in the shower afterwards…’ He disappeared into his bathroom and ran some water over a cloth.

Selina’s voice called to him. ‘So…Bruce Wayne is homicidal and Batman stops him?’

It was a poignant question, and he didn’t really know how to answer it without lying, or worse, sanctioning a part of himself that needed to be buried, deep. Face free of blood he came to sit next to her on his bed. His expression stone as he searched for the right words…but Selina answered for him.

‘You really are touched!’ she smiled and squoze his hand. ‘ _You know that?_ ’

Bruce nodded.

‘So, you’re not the femme type…you don’t like femme…but John? He’s still pretty _floral_ , isn’t he?’

She seemed to think talking about it would do him good. Bruce hesitated, half shrugging.

‘I am sorry…this must be pretty painful for you?’

‘I am not asking you to live with me,’ his voice was hoarse. ‘– but please, please, _please_ Selina. Visit. Please visit me, especially when Alfred’s gone…because… _the day will come…and I won’t have John._ ’ It was his turn to cry now. A whine like a struck dog escaped him. He didn’t know what to do, twisting his body – trying to find some place he should put it.

‘Jesus, you’re going to make me cry…’ beads of water appeared at the corner of each of her lovely eyes. He felt such a fool, but he let her pull him close to her. Let his head fall against her. Stopped resisting, just let her stroke his back, his hair; rub his shoulders; whisper to him. He felt like a child. Safe. He shut his eyes. He was back in his Mother’s arms. She would take his tears. He needed her to take them. He needed her.

Somewhere deep in his chest an octopus unfurled, injecting ink; black and dense. He sucked it in and spat it out. He didn’t know what he was saying. ‘…your act is just that, Selina. _An Act._ You are frightened of your own pain. That’s why you want to fuck me…because it’s the closest thing you could do to grieving.’

‘ _What?_ ’ she breathed. 

‘That’s all I am. A way to grieve. A way to prevent grief.’ Turning his face upwards he saw he had hurt her. ‘ _Oh god_ , no…I don’t want to offend you!’ He pulled himself away from her, spread his hands across his face. ‘Don’t listen to me. You don’t have to listen to me.’

She sat up. He couldn’t read her expression, but she seemed determined when she spoke: ‘You are more than your parents’ death, Bruce. You are MORE than Batman.’

‘No, I am not.’ He was crying. _Why was he crying?_ ‘…nothing good…anyway…’

She shook her head. ‘You’re wrong.’

A fresh wave of anguish struck him and he couldn’t stop them. Like drops of ocean water they fell thick and fast, and he screwed up his face in rage.

‘Don’t.’ Her hand steadied the quivering of his back. ‘Just let them fall.’

‘When Alfred dies, I don’t know what I’ll do…he’s right. There will come a time when I cannot be Batman. Then, I’ll have served my purpose.’ He didn’t mean for his voice to be as bitter as it was. In all honesty, it frightened him.

Selina resumed the comforting circles on his back. ‘Bruce?’ Her voice was so gentle. It made him feel fragile. ‘Don’t end up in Arkham.’

‘I still have to visit John –.’ He spluttered.

‘No. Don’t end up locked up.’ Tenderly, she turned his head to look at her. ‘You have given too much to this city for it to lock you up.’ She stroked his cheek. ‘Don’t lose your mind to it, Bruce.’

He considered her words and nodded – and then really nodded. His whole upper body rocked in agreement. He felt himself slide towards her, and she guided him to lie next to her. It felt so good to just lie next to another human being. He could feel her breath on his cheek. He thanked her and told her how sorry he was. She didn’t reply, but resumed her soothing touch. 

‘So, am I still tall, dark, handsome and mysterious?’ Bruce asked playfully, eyes still wet.

Selina shook her head. ‘Not mysterious. Tortured.’

Bruce looked surprised. He had no comeback. Her caress must have sent him to sleep, and, when he awoke, she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ##### Chapter Track:
> 
> ‘Put Your Lights On', by SANTANA
> 
> _https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r9fNqwOuAO8_


	9. Back to Black. (Part 2)

Why bats? How does a haunting become a calling?

His mother had been a devout catholic. His father not so much. To think he had considered joining the priesthood! He had considered lots of things. None of them had worked out. He had thought he had wanted to be a doctor. A psychiatrist. But the more he learnt about the criminal mind the more he began to hate. Martha had taught him compassion. What happens when you have non for the people you’re trying to help? Answer: you walk away. To think he never graduated in anything…but it all became part of Bruce Wayne’s mask… _privileged fool_.

On the other hand, his father had taught him three things: one, make your own way; two, don’t compromise; three, own your privilege. I suppose you could say his father taught him the art of being ruthless, unbending, and of course _of winning_. The art of having a lot of money and knowing what to do with it. To never lose sight of the peak. To always find your way to the top of the mountain. He had also taught him whiskey is a tonic for hardship, and that no amount of money can stop a bullet. Later: that the people who love us can also sin.

It was true. When he was five, or there about, he was terrified of bats. Embarrassingly so. One had gotten into his room somehow and, flapping chaotically around his head, he had screamed blue murder. Thereafter, any twitch of the curtain or phantom flutter sent him howling to his mother, who opened the duvet and let him sleep between her and Thomas.

Eventually fear became nothing more than a fad, and he used _‘there’s a bat!’_ as a frequent ticket to nestle between his parents. It became something of a joke, and Thomas reluctantly let Martha indulge him. That’s why his father brought the dead bat back from England: to tease him. 

It was strange. The night they died the bats came back. He hadn’t cried when the shots were fired; when they fell, bleeding out their last onto the filth of the pavement. After the shots there was a noise that almost sounded like bats. An apocalyptic swarm of malevolent wings beating circles around him and his parents. That night, in his room, they were waiting in the darkness again. He ran out in terror. Crying out to Mother and Father, but they weren’t there. Their bed was cold and unslept in. And would remain so. It was the longest night of his life, and thereafter a fear of bats gripped him like a great dog closing its jaws around him. They were there when they put the coffins in the ground. When the Earth was thrown on. Above and below, and inside, where the worms were coiling through. There in every flickering shadow of that big and empty house. And a devil man – twisted into the shape of a bat – that murdered his parents again, and again, and again. _A gun fires. Teeth gnash, pulling their insides into the gutter. Pearls – like blinded eyes – fall onto two sacks of empty flesh. Like mannequins. Emptied of all thought and memory. Never to laugh or cry again. A spilling of some golden chalice – and he, becoming smaller and more pathetic, unable to prevent the monster from turning his parents into a pair of dummies. And bats. Bats everywhere. Running over them. Dissolving them into the slime of the city._

No. Batman hadn’t always been a pillar of virtue. His first incarnation had been a foul haunting, and somehow the gun had become a bat, and then lots of bats, and then a demon. Batman.

In his late teens he had bought a gun. Who he was going to use it on, he wasn’t quite sure. He pulled it on somebody once. Some lowlife deadbeat harassing a woman. The man backed down instantly, but that didn’t stop the anger from pounding through him. With the man begging on his knees he had almost pulled the trigger. Almost got his wish. He had wanted to see what this waist-of-flesh looked like on the inside. The pinks and purples, and the shiny sacks that held the organs, burst like pustules. That was all the man was: a human boil filled with toxic puss that was infecting the whole city. But he didn’t. As if Martha had reached out and touched his hand, he lowered the gun and walked away. That night he found himself on the roof of Wayne Manor. It was a beautiful July evening. The moon was nearly full, and the air clear as a bell. He raised the gun to his temple. He was infected, corrupt, and he knew it. There was no getting better. He didn’t just want to end the lives of scum. What he wanted he dare not speak, but there was enough goodness left inside him to know that he needed to leave now. He was sick of being lonely and he wanted to see them. Tonight, more than ever, he needed them. 

Relief flooded him and – as he was about to squeeze the trigger – he startled. It was a bat. Flying in circles. Chasing down moths. With his heart pounding he looked over the edge of the roof. There was more of them. Tiny specks of darkness darting in and out shafts of moonlight. And he was the demon-bat holding the gun. He dropped it and it fell. It went off when it hit the ground and he could hear Alfred tearing through the house trying to find him. He was the bat. He was the monster, and the monster didn’t need a gun.

 _‘Bruce! Bruce!_ ’ Alfred had called. And he had stood in silence up there in the dark. His parents had spoken. Bruce answered the moon: _I am Batman._

*

‘This is not your burden to bare.’ Bruce spoke to Tiffany as honestly as he could. He needed her to understand that she did not have to do this; for him or anyone else. ‘I am not asking you to do anything you’re not fully in agreement with.’

Tiffany scoffed. ‘You know what I am going to say: I want in.’

‘The work you’re doing for the military is still saving lives, Tiffany.’ It was true. She was helping pioneer a new generation of manless drones. Fully automated eyes and ears.

‘Nah,’ she flopped her hand over. ‘If you’re unretired, then I am unretired.’ 

_Would you believe Lucius Fox had been dead for two years?_

He nodded, ‘understood,’ and smiled. She accepted his hand and they shook. ‘Glad to have you on board. Again.’ 

Banging her ankles together she saluted him. He chuckled, saluting back.

‘So, what made you unretire?’

He froze. He should have anticipated this question. His expression must have been hard because Tiffany quickly apologised. She didn’t need to apologise. It was a valid question.

‘I – the city needs Batman.’ He held up his hands, a little embarrassed he hadn’t a more articulate reason. ‘There is only so much Bruce Wayne can do. If I spend money on all the institutions Batman associated with, well then, I’d might as well sign a confession.’ He laughed, hoping to lighten the mood.

She looked furtive and Bruce narrowed his eyes in concern. ‘And the clown,’ she asked tentatively, ‘is he ok?’ She had taken to calling John _the clown_. He seemed to have really freaked her at the factory – _well, yes._

Bruce swallowed. ‘As good as he can be. I think.’ _I hope._

‘Good.’ Her black curls nodded. ‘And y –.’

_Don’t._

She didn’t finish the sentence. 

_Just don’t._

The door swung gently open, and Alfred came shuffling towards them with tea and shortbread spread out on a silver tray. Bruce smiled appreciatively at his old man.

‘I’ll get started on the upgrades.’ Tiffany mumbled through a mouthful of biscuit and Bruce clapped her on the shoulder in thanks.

He also took a biscuit and made a show of dunking it, popping it whole into his mouth. Tiffany giggled.

*

Preparation felt good. It put him in the space he needed. The Batcomputer sparkled clean, red light illuminating the contours of its sleek control. Geometric flooring ran seamlessly into the coarse walls of the cavern. Above he could hear the bats. The species that dwelled in the cave were not the same as those who dwelled in the wood. They were small, barely noticeable – and then you would spot clusters of their furry bodies, vibrating next to each other in the gloom.

The Batsuit felt like some ancient armour. Wearing it filled him with a sanctioning force, but it was only when he slid the cowl over his head did he feel fully submerged in cool impartiality; opening his eyes, feeling the kevlar grip him, the weight of the metal on his shoulders, and the computer that overlaid his vision. Medieval knight and future android. A sentinel of divine darkness. He felt Bruce Wayne step aside. Closing his eyes and opening them. He was ready to dispense justice. Bend those who needed to atone. 

He was Batman.

*

_Knuckles bust the lips of a mouth that has lied, cheated and stolen. Given orders to kill and betrayed those closest to them. His foot makes contact with another’s throat. His knee with another’s groin. They fire their guns and waist their bullets. Like one of the fallen, he rises from the pit and strikes them down. Surrounded by smoke, he chokes a man out between his thighs. Watching the pupils swell and the sweat run. Their terror is the only nourishment he needs. Like animals, their horror consumes them and he swoops in to punish. To discipline. To control._

__

__

_Batman: a beast bigger than the mob._

*

The 13th October had arrived. Bruce had made all the necessary arrangements with Dr Phillips and the car was loaded. The special gift – actually, there were two special gifts – were at the front on Alfred’s lap. They rounded the corner of Arkham Asylum and glided neatly into Bruce’s reserved spot.

‘Are you ready to put it on?’

‘If I absolutely have to, sir,’ said Alfred tightly. After much insistence, Bruce had finally convinced Alfred to come and contribute to the party atmosphere. 

‘You have to, Al, it’s part of the fun.’

‘If you say so, sir.’

They entered the building.

‘Oh!’ the receptionist flustered.

‘Bruce Wayne for John Doe. We are expected.’

She looked about herself, trying to catch the eye of anyone else to confirm what she was seeing. Failing, she simply pointed them up the hall. Arms laden with boxes, balloons and coloured bunting, they strode to their designated room and set up. 

Jingling, Bruce took his pose. John entered and immediately pulled a face like the Cheshire Cat.

‘Welcome to your Birthday extravaganza! Here –,’ Bruce leapt to the spot, ‘in this chest we have over twenty different theatrical costumes to don at your pleasure!’ 

(Technically they were for all the inmates at Arkham, but Dr Phillips assured that John would get special access.) 

‘And associating props! Be an elf, a knight, a prince, or a fool! And here,’ Bruce’s bells tinkled, ‘we have your own personal CD Player that plays,’ he held up the records, ‘Broadway, West End, Jazz, the best of the swinging 60s – The Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band (because I thought you’d like). And to rot your brain away on T.V,’ Bruce’s gloved hands held up a film cover with Tasmania on it. ‘Toons, and toons, and some more toons, and some great musicals with carnival scenes, and some movies with fantastic sets – jazz clubs and big circus tents filled with clowns. Harryhausen. Oh, and some Buster Keaton!’

‘WOW!’

‘And John, where would our man of the hour be without –,’ Alfred began franticly lighting candles, ‘a decadent Chocolate Cherry Rum Cake!’

‘No!’ Bruce yelped. ‘Don’t blow them out yet!’ 

John put his hands up like he’d been caught by the cops.

‘Erm…’ Bruce flexed all his fingers, hesitated, then took position. On his feet were skin-tight boots hemmed with bells. The rest of him was clad in an orange, black, red, green, yellow, white diamond pattern suit – the traditional costume of Harlequin. He had on a hat to match – that looked a little like a pirate’s – and across his eyes, brow and cheeks he had painted the illusion of a black mask, given himself diamond-black lips and powdered his face white. His hands were gloved like the Harlequin too. An imposing jester that might have served the Queen of Diamonds if Wonderland existed. John seemed to be in a state of rapture.

Stock-still, Bruce appeared to be gathering his thoughts, or perhaps courage. He took one bold step out, one big breath in, and flared his arms wide with dramatic style – a little camp, a little foppish. As Harlequin, he began his Birthday rendition to John:

_‘They say average is second best, John,  
Not hearing voices; seeing clowns.  
So, make a birthday wish, John.  
But remember:  
The whole world is gonna frown,  
If they let ye out n’ you shoot‘em down!  
Truth is: even average is a mess.  
No one perception is the best.  
Abnormal has its place, John,  
Not something to be frowned on.  
Fuck’em if they say it isn’t so…  
Take your bad days, take your grief,  
Make’em laugh and find belief,  
That in the darkest of our days  
– those dirty moments that replay –  
Healing laughter can be found  
– that even heartache can be clowned –  
That even the best of us – the worst of us – are fools.  
So, make a birthday wish, John.  
I wish you all the best, John.  
Know I love you, and I love that you’re a fool.’ _

Bruce brought his left fingers to his lips, let them linger and then blew a kiss. Opening his hand, as if letting a moth fly free. Then he bowed low and straightened: ‘Happy Birthday, John.’

Holding his arms theatrically, Bruce waited for a reaction. John didn’t move. _Oh no_. He’d made a mistake. His heart sped up in panic, his eyes widening as he made to salvage the situation with apology.

‘That,’ breathed John, ‘was… _perfect.’_

Bruce stopped, his lips gently parted and watched as John took in an enormous gulp of air and blew out all but one of the thirty-something candles.

‘Here.’ John turned the massive cub cake to Bruce. ‘I want _you_ to make a wish on that last one.’

Approaching the table, Bruce bent down on one knee and, never taking his eye of John, softly blew enough air to snuff out the flame. Tendrils of smoke curled like vipers and spread as they rose. The mouth above him caught them in its lips and blew them back. Dimples etched deeply; John smiled.

Fidgeting movements behind Bruce caught his attention. Alfred – who had been made to wear a Venetian carnival mask, the kind with the long beak nose – was showing signs of someone in deep discomfort. Bruce felt his cheeks grow hot. Cackling sizzled from the table. John banged his fist, shaking in a state of paralytic mirth. His face contorted into a demonic grin, howling; laugh lines cracking as if the white flesh was plaster, while the chain that bound him rattled as his body shook.

Alfred opened his mouth, aghast. 

Bruce couldn’t help it and began to laugh too. The more he laughed, the more _John_ laughed; and the more John laughed the more _he_ laughed. 

The guard standing outside the door must have come to check out the racket. The alarm in his face – like a soldier bursting into the command room and catching sight of his captain in a feathered bustle – made Bruce laugh harder still. He sunk to his knees. He was laughing so hard no sound was coming out.

‘I – I am. S – orr,’ he spluttered. 

Disgruntled and faintly disgusted, the guard turned to leave. Even Alfred chuckled a couple of times. Eventually he got it together. John took a little longer to compose himself.

‘Two more presents!’ he snorted.

‘ _What!_ There’s MORE?’

‘You’ll like them. I promise.’ Bruce handed John two boxes; one big and one small.

John was about to start ripping through ribbon when he noticed Bruce twitch. ‘Let me GUESS! There’s a _right way_ to open them. Which one first?’

Bruce pointed: ‘That one.’

Promptly, John tore off the paper. ‘What?...OH _BRUCE!’_

‘See. It’s a Polaroid. You’re not allowed anything with a computer – but this camera uses film. Point, snap, and a photo pops out.’

‘Can I try?’ Before Bruce could answer, John had pressed the switch and a flash captured him part way through an expression. He looked surprised. John held up the picture and puckered his lips in a kiss, giggling. ‘I _LOVE_ IT!’

Bruce coughed, ‘and this is the final one, John. I hope it’s to taste.’

Looking curious, John turned the small box over in his hand, admiring Alfred’s exquisite bow before tearing through it. He took the object out and his eyes lit up. 

‘Oh. _Bruce_ ,’ purred John, ‘You’ve outdone yourself.’

The breath Bruce had been holding was let out and he rubbed the back of his neck in relief. ‘Commissioned a German bear maker. Completely bespoke – not another like it in the world.’

‘You don’t say…’ pallid fingertips felt the ends of the bat’s wings. Each of its little claws had a teeny-tiny gold bell stitched on the end. Around its shoulders it had a mane of soft black fur, its ears were outrageously large, and its body was covered in a multicoloured harlequin pattern. Inside each of the white diamonds was the embroidered number 13. The teddy bear was not much bigger than John’s hand.

Quite suddenly he scooped the bat up and planted a great wet kiss on its goblin nose. John jingled the bat in front of Bruce: ‘KISS _THIRTEENY!’_

Bruce did as he was told. 

‘Want to get a picture? Bruce asked. John snapped his teeth together in confirmation. 

‘Hey, Al?’ Alfred looked as though he had fallen into a Lewis Carroll novel he couldn’t escape from. ‘Do you mind?’

Alfred took the camera from John. Slightly hurt, Bruce noticed Al seemed frightened to touch the pale skin. He scowled. Both men bent over the ostentatiously large cub cake, and as the camera clicked John made the bat kiss Bruce again. 

The photo popped out and John held it in front of him, crowing like a maniac.

On their way out, Alfred whispered: ‘I think you made a madman very happy today.’

Bruce frowned slightly. _I hope so._

*

Chrome wheels purred their way up to a spot on the hill and stopped. It was a scenic snapshot of trees, and blue sky, and of Arkham’s silhouette; stooped before the faint outline of the sea. It was a spot Bruce like to pull up his car in, turn the engine off, and think. In the silence, the birds began to emerge again. Fluttering between branches, trumpeting their claim of tree and berry. Bruce watched, smiling softly.

‘Ehem?’

He looked around at Alfred.

‘Your gifts seemed to be appreciated, sir. _Manically_ so,’ said Alfred.

Bruce chuckled. ‘So, what do you think of John?’

‘Honestly, I find him disturbing. I think _HE IS disturbed_ , poor man.’

Still smiling, Bruce took a wipe and removed his diamond lips: ‘What do you think of me?’

‘Bruce!’ Alfred yelped. Bruce laughed at the shock on his butler’s face. Then the old man became pensive. ‘I think you try your best, despite your hand. We all have a dark side, Bruce.’

‘Do you think its darkness or madness?’ He had finished wiping his face clean.

‘I wouldn’t like to say. Either way it’s effective – wouldn’t you agree?’

Bruce thought about the criminals he had stopped last night; bleeding and repentful. ‘Yes. It is.’

‘And me liking John…the men? Do you think my parents would have accepted me?’

The old man seemed taken aback, but not dismissive of Bruce’s desire for honest conversation. Alfred grimaced. Trying to get Bruce to talk about emotions was like trying to get blood from a stone. He wasn’t going to waste such an opportunity. ‘I don’t think they would have stopped loving you,’ he said firmly. He knew better than to lie to Bruce, who looked at him to continue. ‘Martha: definitely not.’

Blue eyes faded out to sea. ‘What about God?’

‘Martha would not have let God come between her son, Bruce!’

‘And my Father?’ Far out in the distance, Bruce knew the waves were crashing.

‘Does it really matter what Thomas would have thought?’

Bruce frowned. ‘Yes.’ His brow tightened; bitter and conflicted. ‘He’s my father, Alfred.’

His butler sighed. ‘No. He wouldn’t have stopped loving you. He wouldn’t have liked it – then again – you never knew with Thomas. He might have _even_ fixed you up – encouraged it if it made you happy – as long as you were secret about it.’ Alfred twitched, murmuring darkly: ‘he knew the importance of keeping personal secrets away from public image.’ 

‘Quite,’ Bruce tittered dryly. ‘If he had lived, do you think he would have made me a monster?’

Now, Alfred looked deeply uncomfortable. He jolted, swallowed and answered: ‘Yes. I think you would have been good at it too.’

Bruce smirked. ‘How good?’

‘Bruce, can we _not_ , please! It’s not healthy and it does no good to dwell on _maybes_ and _ifs_. You play the hand you’re dealt – and if your hand requires Batman, well then, I can’t stop you! Just understand: I can’t do it forever and NEITHER can you!’

‘Sometimes I think I am going mad, Al.’ Bruce looked towards his butler who had shut his eyes tight. He seemed in pain. Bruce continued: ‘I need discipline. I think my _retirement_ proved that. I need Batman – otherwise I am just another monster. Self-centred and pitiful. You’ve no idea what I’ve got buried. _I understand these people, Al_. I understand the compulsion.’

‘Yes – but you understand the _conflict_ too!’ Alfred’s eyes snapped open. ‘You might want to kill –.’ He faltered. Horrified he had spoken the truth aloud.

‘Go on,’ said Bruce impassively.

‘But you don’t. You use _the feeling_ to bring about positive change. You don’t give in to your desires, Bruce – you channel them to serve others!’ Alfred finished with conviction. His hands shook a little, and his eyes were fierce as well as a little wet. ‘It’s a _choice_ Bruce, and you choose what’s right!’

Leaning in, Bruce pulled the old man close. The gesture must have surprised Alfred – they hadn’t hugged like this in years – not since Bruce was young. Alfred ran his hands over his boy’s back, checking to see he wasn’t shaking; but Bruce wasn’t crying. If Alfred could have seen his face, he would have saw Bruce smiling in warmth and appreciation. Sometimes an honest conversation is all one needs.

‘Batman is needed’, said Alfred.

‘I know, Al. I know.’

‘NO! Batman is needed: look!’

Bruce turned. The Batsignal shone. The shadow of the bat growing sharper as the sun set. 

_‘Jim!’_

The commissioner must have heard he was back. Wasting no time, he set his engine to autonomous-drive and wrestled out of the harlequin suit and into Batman’s armour.

‘Looks like I am coming with you,’ Alfred raised an eyebrow in question. 

‘Sorry Al, no time to drop you off.’ He took hold of the steering wheel and pressed the switch for manual-drive. 

‘Please, sir. Not too _fas – !’_

Vermillion contours folded in on themselves and the armoured shell slid into position. The exhaust boosted and the Batmobile sped off to Gotham city, leaving the sun behind. The next battle awaited them. 

_Time to serve justice._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ##### Chapter Track:
> 
> 'Smile', by JIMMY DURANTE
> 
> _https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hDK6X0Nxa8M_


	10. Epilogue: John Doe, Session 587.

‘John Doe, Session 587, December 3rd, 2016.’ Dr Leland finished speaking into the recorder and resumed her professional pose; straight backed, hands casually folded behind her desk.

John let out a long, low whistle and got all fidgets out of his system. Folding his arms across his chest he lay full length on the chaise longue and tried not to fiddle with the studs that fixed its leather in place. That was why his arms were folded. To remind him not to fidget.

‘Good morning, John. Last session I believe we were talking about how you ended up coming back to us.’ He frowned. _No we weren’t._ ‘What it was like being outside. What was good. What was difficult. Dr Quinzel’s unfortunate influence.’ 

He already wanted to fidget. ‘I don’t want to _talk_ about Harley.’ 

Dr Leland paused in reflection before speaking. ‘Yet, she seemed an important and valued person to you?’

‘I _guess_ Harley’s like so many people. Their packaging _looks so good_ – so tasty – EXCITING! They pull you along with them _and_ YOU pull _off_ the tin lid – and it’s a _can_ of worms!’ His hands had left his body and were stretched wide in exclamation. John looked at them and folded them back across his chest. He adjusted his head a little, green hair rustling on the shiny leather. ‘She used me,’ he said bitterly. ‘– _AND_ abused me!’

‘– and that must have hurt, John. She had no right to drag you into her criminal activity. You might still be on the outside if it weren’t for her.’

‘What if I _wanted_ her to drag me in?’ His hands were off. _God damn it!_

‘Wanting to please somebody we admire is not the same as wanting to be criminal,’ said Dr Leland smoothly, watching him try to outwit his own fingers. ‘Maybe you just needed a better role model.’

‘– and?’ John lay back down, cool. ‘ _Who_ do you suggest, doctor?’

‘Well, I don’t know. Who do you suggest, John?’

The reframing of questions always irritated John. If you just answered them, you never learnt anything. So, he just shrugged his shoulders.

‘Alright,’ said Dr Leland carefully, ‘tell me about Bruce Wayne.’

John turned his face to the ceiling. If he smiled, she wouldn’t see. ‘Well, _Bruce_ is a _complicated guy_.’

‘A good role model?’ She was pressing him.

A smirk twisted his lip: ‘Sure, for anyone going _chameleon_.’

‘What do you mean?’ The intonation in her voice changed: gentle to commanding. She was interested.

‘He’s a shapeshifter,’ John explained. ‘Chasing shapes. _Chasing shadows_.’

‘You mean he’s trying to find himself?’ reasoned Dr Leland.

The excitement was too much. John sprung up grinning, visibly scolded himself and lay flat again on the longue, trying to stop the giggles rumbling out of him like a jackal.

‘Oh, he knows who he is… _he’s just afraid of it_ ,’ he whispered darkly.

Dr Leland paused, thought, and pressed him a little further. ‘Please, explain.’

‘Well, let’s just say, I don’t think he’s Gotham’s most _eligible_ bachelor because he’s not found the right _girl_ yet. If you catch my drift.’ The jackal cackled.

Dr Leland became silent, clearly thinking. Her face warmed and she spoke gently: ‘It’s ok to have feelings, John. When we admire some –.’

‘No.’ John shot up, a fizz of anger in his cheeks. ‘Really. _I am not talking about me!’_

She frowned, digested what he had said and continued with caution. ‘…and you suspect this because?’

‘He told me he _loves_ me.’ John’s voice rung, earnest and true. He was not making this up.

He could tell the doctor didn’t buy it. Her faced pulled that saccharine expression an adult makes when a child misreads a situation. Her words oozed with so much compassion they were making him feel sick. ‘Well, sometimes words can come across stronger than intended. When friends –.’

‘NO!’ John was on his feet and pacing, hands a whirlwind of white. ‘He _told me_ that _he loved me_.’ John spoke loud and clear (the voices didn’t disagree). ‘He wanted to _kiss me_ and _hold me_ and _explore_ me.’ Pale spiders grasped parts of his body, moving up his chest to caress his face.

Dr Leland looked dumfounded. ‘…and how did that make you feel?’

‘ _Flattered!_ OF COURSE! I mean – Bruce _spank’n_ Wayne SAW something in me!’

Her concern intensified. ‘What do you think he saw?’

‘Himself. A comrade fighting the same war. _Dressing the same wounds_. The struggles the same!’ John flung his hands wide.

‘The same war?’

John looked around. He was stood like a statue, one arm raised in victory or salute. He climbed back onto the chair and folded himself again into a reclining position; stretched stiff like Dracula. He shut his eyes. ‘Like I said. He’s a _complicated_ guy.’

‘John, how often did he visit?’ Her voice was casual. Too casual.

‘At the peak of it?’ John asked. Dr Leland nodded. ‘Two to four times a week.’

A bark of laughter escaped him. Dr Leland looked like he’d given her a picture of two bats fucking. Both shaved and oiled with little horsey whips and a hollowed-out walnut filled with cream or maybe crushed insects. Their props would have to be sized appropriately. _Would they do it upside down, or would doing it the right way up be more perverse?_

‘Did he say anything else to you?’

‘You think what he said was inappropriate, doctor?’ He was back on his feet again. ‘Shouldn’t a guy _EXPRESS_ his feelings?’ Now, he was on his knees in front of her. ‘SHOULDN’T we _always_ try to tell THE _TRUTH!’_

Pale hands slid down his face in what would have been – if John knew Munch – a sensational rendition of _The Scream._

Deeply uncomfortable and for this moment without words to say, Dr Leland sat – just taking it in. He could hear the gears clicking in her brain – her alarmed face betraying her growing irritation.

John smiled, satisfied. ‘You don’t think he should have left Arkham? _Do you?’_

‘I really don’t have an opinion,’ said Dr Leland flatly. 

‘Aren’t you _worried_ about what kind of guy he is? – _about what kind of guy loves me?’_

‘You aren’t irredeemable, John. Why shouldn’t he love you?’

‘…because he’s supposed to be a white knight, _isn’t he?_ Super rich, super talented. SUPER _SANE_. He’s supposed to be super and happy and the envy of all men and the secret crush of all the ladies! But he’s not, _is he?_ He’s miserable, and brooding and _WILFULLY_ BORING. _He can’t have any fun at all!_ Just in case he does and – OH BOY – he lets go of that steering wheel and BAM, BAM, _BAM,_ BAM, BAM. He enjoys it so much he can’t stop. Out of control…CONTROL…that’s your thing, _isn’t it – Bruce?_ Well what happens when you can’t control it? _What happens when it controls you?’_

‘He ends up here, in Arkham,’ said Dr Leland sharply. ‘Like he did when he attacked Oswald Cobblepot.’

‘EXACTLY!’ he twirled full circle and thrust his hand into a point.

‘John, is there something about Bruce Wayne you think you should tell me?’

He felt his lips pull a vile grin, then made himself stop. He felt ashamed. ‘No.’

‘You remember what we said?’ her words were careful. ‘It isn’t fair to idolise people. When they don’t meet our expectations, they disappoint us. It is so easy to be hurt and it isn’t fair on them or you, John.’ Dr Leland’s words were lit with conviction and encouragement: ‘You need to have more faith in yourself.’

‘– but I am a _murderer_ ,’ said John slowly, coming to lie back down. ‘Batman brought me in.’

‘I am afraid I am not privy to the circumstances of you re-joining us…not in any great detail, anyway. I understand you were somehow involved with Dr Quinzel, went against her wishes by aiding the Batman, and it turned sour. They sound troubling and traumatic events. The file says you murdered three people.’

‘Yes. _Maybe_ more.’ John sighed.

‘Was Batman a good role model?’

‘Yes! – _but his standards aren’t really attainable!’_ he chuckled. 

‘Why?’

‘He ALWAYS KNOWS what’s _RIGHT_. _Even when he’s wrong._ He’s CERTAIN!...I am never certain…so many things…are… _confused_.’ Disgusted by the world, John rolled his face to the wall.

‘Was Bruce working with Harley?’

‘No!’ he muffled.

‘Was Bruce working with Batman?’

John laughed. _‘Hard to say_. No.’

‘Then why the visits, John? How did he get to know you?’

 _All the wrong questions._ John sat up and looked the doctor in the face. ‘I guess here,’ he said slowly. ‘Arkham. Boom. Same stitch. _A strange part of me feels like he’s always been here_ – with me I mean.’

Sliding his legs down so his feet touched the floor, John glanced reproachfully at Dr Leland. ‘If you’d been here…would you have allowed him to visit?... _considering he’s my friend?’_

‘Of course, John.’

‘…but you would’ve wondered _why_ a guy like him wanted to hang out with a guy _like_ me?’

Dr Leland appeared to be doing some quick thinking.

‘…because a _guy like that_ could _never_ love a _guy like me?_ ’

‘I didn’t say that,’ she said swiftly.

‘…but what if HE’S a guy like me?’

‘I don’t think Mr Wayne lacks confidence or self-worth, John,’ Dr Leland warned. 

‘…or what if – _underneath it all_ – I am a guy like him?’

The doctor paused. ‘Mr Wayne is four-fifths money.’ Her voice was sour. She stopped, looking sorry she had spoken unprofessionally.

‘You’re wrong,’ said John quietly. ‘He’s four-fifths hidden.’

An uneasy silence filled the space between them. John relished it, making sure he fixed her with big, soulful eyes. Inviting her to question him. _Daring her._ He could hear the ticking of her wristwatch. Like Bruce’s, it looked expensive…well, maybe not quite as expensive. When he realised she wasn’t going to, he leaned back, breaking the connection.

John rubbed his nose thoughtfully. ‘Why did you leave?’

Hesitating, Dr Leland rearranged her hands. Reluctantly she told him: ‘Maternity leave.’

‘CONGRATULATIONS!’ John shot to his feet, thrusting his hand at her. She took it. ‘What did you call the _little squirmer?’_

‘I am afraid our time is up.’ She had had enough now. He could tell.

‘Dr Leland?’

‘Yes, John.’

‘Do you ever think I’ll ever be able to _leave_ this place?’ John knew the answer was “no”. Still, _what would she say?_

‘I don’t think you’d really want to, even if you could.’ She looked down. ‘It is like you said last time: _“Arkham is the realest place I know.”’_

 _Ah, tactful_ , John thought.

‘Someone like you needs to be in a place that’s real.’ Now she looked at him. ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of, John.’ 

*

And that was that. John let the nurses – the burly men in powder blue uniforms that could have passed as cage fighters – escort him back to his chair in the lounge. After his stint outside, his chair was still there. It looked like it had been there since Amadeus. Maybe it had been drooled on, punched a few more times than necessary, but it was still his chair. He tried to tuck a dangling thread back into the upholstery – but it snapped clean off. 

John shook his fists and hissed, landed hard in his seat and hit the button on the remote. The T.V screen fizzed to life. Some police officer had been murdered. He was almost going to turn channel, but then he heard the word _“cannibalised”_ and continued watching. A man’s face – wide forehead with red hair – came on screen. 

_“…bitten around the throat and neck…”_

Cackling, John clapped his hands.

_“…we don’t know whether he died from these injuries. Blood loss or suffocation seems likely…”_

John huffed. _So, he wasn’t cannibalised then!_

He almost pressed the button to switch off: _“…rumoured suspects include the Batman.”_

John froze.

Commissioner Gordon flashed up briefly looking shellshocked and refusing comment. The news bulletin ended and a new one began about the dangers of climate change and the need for us all to take it seriously. He switched the TV off.

He couldn’t tell if he was empty or a new and unknown emotion had filled him up completely – paralysed him – it felt tingly.

‘Bruce?’ 

He looked at the chair next to him. 

Was it wrong to want it to be Bruce? 

_Oh, please be you._

A wide smile slowly stretched across his face. Uncontrollably, his lips pulled to reveal a set of yellow teeth. 

‘– you are one _MESSED UP guy!’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ##### Chapter Track:
> 
> ‘One Step Beyond', by MADNESS
> 
> _https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C9N8piRFVcU_
> 
> ### Author’s Note:
> 
> **To everyone who has made it to the end: thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed!**


End file.
